


Champions of the Just

by Tainaron



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Established Relationship, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Male Character, trans men in a loving relationship, trans!cullen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tainaron/pseuds/Tainaron
Summary: En route to Griffin Wing Keep before the battle of Adamant, Cullen falls prey to an injury that reveals a shameful secret about his trauma with magic. As Cullen struggles with his past, his duty to the Inquisition, and his love life, he becomes increasingly uncertain if he’s the target of an assassination attempt or just his own personal demons.
Relationships: Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 100
Kudos: 82
Collections: Creaky Soldiers in Love





	1. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the Champions of the just

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missivesfromghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missivesfromghosts/gifts).



> This fic is complete and will update regularly.
> 
> Dedicated to missivesfromghosts, my best friend of 20+ years and the best confidant anyone could wish for. Thank you for being there for me during the most difficult times of my life. I hope that when you need me, I can be there for you too. Happy birthday, beloved friend.

There was an unsanctioned rite that was performed before a Harrowing that no one expected to succeed. No one taught it and no one confronted the Templars who paused to stand before the towering candles in the hall, passing their fingers through a flickering flame and then pressing them to their lips before they spoke from Canticle of Benedictions: 

_Blessed are they who stand before_

_The corrupt and wicked and do not falter._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the_

_Champions of the just._

It was a hollow comfort for the brothers and sisters who must put blade to the flesh of a familiar face, despite the necessity.

Cullen still had trouble reciting the canticle without dread curling in his stomach and the growing certainty that something was going to go wrong. But today it was the beginnings of that dry-mouthed apprehension starting to take root in him that, in the reverse, brought the words to his tongue.

Griffon Wing Keep.

The Keep had been an unceasing source of trouble since the Inquisitor and her entourage cut down the Venatori occupying the stronghold. Poisoned water. A creeping fog that burned the eyes and lungs. Darkspawn crawling out of passages that no amount of patrols could find. Knight-Captain Rylen was clearly beside himself in the letters he sent to Skyhold and Cullen couldn’t blame him. He suspected they’d done Corypheus a favor by taking the keep from him.

He also suspected that before the end of this expedition to survey the Keep himself, he’d be wishing that they had never thought it’d be a good place to set up a forward camp for their assault on Adamant.

The Keep squatted between his travel party and the sinking sun with all the grace and charm of a rotting druffalo. It was hard to look at for more than a few seconds, not that anyone was particularly keen on doing so. Cullen rubbed his face with the back of his gloved hand and did little more than grind sand into his eye.

“You know, the Chargers go to some shitholes, Commander, but this has got to be up there with the foulest. You sure we can’t leave the Venatori bastards out here to bake their brains and set up our camp somewhere where the entire land isn't trying to kill us?" Krem pressed a waterskin into his free hand and Cullen took it gratefully. 

"Unfortunately not. It'll be easier to launch our attack from here," Cullen muttered as he worked the stopper free. Sweet Maker, every drop of water was a blessing on his throat. 

“Oh yeah, when you march the army in they’ll take one look at the Keep and be roused with loyalty for the Inquisition's cause,” Krem drawled. 

Cullen snorted and wondered how Krem had the energy to joke. Even with the small team stopping to rest every few hours and sleep through the worst of the sun there were few who were actually faring well in the desert. The sun had seared Cullen’s face red and even Krem was sporting the beginnings of sunburn where his hair had been cut short. Cullen couldn’t help but glance back at the supply wagon, where the pale-skinned elves were currently resting in the back under wet cloths after Skinner started sweating heavily and nearly collapsed and Dalish didn’t look far behind. He couldn’t see them, but he knew Stitches was looking over their recovery.

It was part of the reason he was feeling uneasy if he was honest. Out of the Chargers, only Grim, Rocky, and Krem were on their feet. They had other men with them, of course — a squad of eight to escort the Commander and then relieve some of the worst-affected of the troops at the Keep—but unfamiliar territory and reduced numbers always made Cullen edgy.

“They’ll be fine, Commander. Stitches knows his craft.”

Cullen spared a smile for Krem, who sounded like he was half convincing himself. He handed the waterskin back and watched Krem take a long drink, eyes closed and forehead beaded with sweat. He wanted to touch his arm in reassurance, but averted his eyes toward the Keep instead. While the desert was more passable in the immediate hours before and after sunset Cullen had every intention of reaching the Keep before full dark if he could. Slowly, Cullen had been learning to measure distances in the endless expanse. At least here he could see a number of rocky outcrops and passages between them and the Keep to gauge the space they have left to travel. It couldn’t be more than another hour’s walk away through one of the ravines. Surely not time enough to find trouble.

Cullen was wrong.

Not twenty minutes later a scream behind him had his heart pounding as he turned, one hand flying to the hilt of his sword. Cullen didn’t have experience fighting them but he did recognize their enemy instantly: varghest. Kin to wyvern, the beasts were built sleek and sturdy, armored with scales. They were near twice the length of a man from their thick muzzles down to their long, powerful, whip-like tails.

Cullen watched one of the beasts crush a man to the ground under one massive claw and clamp its razor teeth around his arm. It started to savage the limb, muscle and skin giving way to a flood of blood. The man’s scream went high and thin. 

Another two of the creatures were descending the sharp rise behind them, clawing their way down the sun-baked rock at an unnatural speed and crashing into the rear-guard of the caravan. 

He moved. Krem was a second ahead of him, pulling his sword free as a curse flew from his lips. 

Somewhere in his peripheral vision Cullen saw the flaps of the wagon fly open, a bright light bursting outward toward the two beasts at the rear of the procession. But his eyes were on the downed man who didn’t move except to scream, not even as the varghest began to drag him backwards toward a narrow slit in the rock face they’d passed by without noticing. 

“Form up! Archers on the wagon, watch their tails, _use your shields!”_ Cullen bellowed as Krem’s voice cut in after him, overlapping on the last word--

“Shields, Dalish!”

Cullen bolted past the bulk of the wagon, sword out, before the tell-tale shine of magic enveloped him and the rear-guard. 

The men around him glowed like stars in the descending dusk.

Krem ducked forward to Cullen’s left, hitting the nearest varghest across the face with his sword with enough force to send it staggering to the side. Cullen nearly froze for a moment in shock at the unusual move and the strength behind it before his memory caught up with him and _that’s right, he favors the maul--_

With an oath to the Maker on his lips, Cullen darted forward and tried to run the beast through while it was disoriented. The tip of the blade nicked scales before being deflected up and over the beast’s back. 

“Can’t cut the scales, have to bludgeon it, Commander--” 

_Maker-cursed wyvern blood._ If only Krem's maul weren't in the wagon, too exhausting to drag along on foot for days on end.

The varghest screamed and scuttled backward suddenly, head shaking from side to side viciously as it tried to dislodge the knife in its eye.

He didn’t need to look twice to realize it must be one of Skinner’s blades.

Instead he was already sheathing his sword and dropping to his knee to pull the soldier’s uninjured arm over his shoulder. He may not have experience fighting the vermin, but he did know that if the man were left on the sand he would get trampled if he didn’t bleed out first.

An arrow cut through the air nearby, driving the varghest further away as it stumbled in pain.

“On your feet.” He ordered the man as he struggled to stand, leaning heavily to one side under the weight of another body. Then again when the man stared blankly at him: _“On your feet.”_

That’s when the magic around him, which had never quite settled into a second skin, shattered.

He staggered as something punched into him hard, but didn’t fall, arm still under the man’s shoulder.

“On your feet!” He growled and finally, _finally_ the man seemed to shake from his stupor and straighten his legs.

Something sharp was buried in Cullen’s thigh.

“Commander!” 

“We’re more than triple their number—shields up, form a line, block the passage once you’ve driven them back!” Cullen called out, ignoring the voice as he stumbled back toward the wagon. Around him he could see his men in small skirmishing groups, three or so on each varghest while others lingered behind, trying not to get in the way but waiting for an opening as they harried the creatures. He dimly registered that the soldiers who favored maces were on the forefront. At least they didn’t repeat his mistake. He could already see the beasts shying back, hesitating longer before each dart and snap of their mighty jaws now that their prey wasn't scattered and disorganized. “Archers, where are you?”

“Called off.” Krem was suddenly there, his voice tight with fury.

Krem hooked an arm around Cullen’s waist and started pulling him back to the wagon. He slowed with a curse when Cullen and the soldier stumbled in the loose sand. 

“Grim, watch our back. Dalish, throw down an ice wall when the varghest pull back far enough.”

Stitches was waiting on the back of the wagon and held his arms out to pull the injured man up onto the wagon bed. Cullen tried to assist but Krem knocked his hands away. Skinner reached down instead to help the man up with a look of distaste as she handled the shem. Cullen could see Dalish standing above on the wooden bones of the wagon covering, her hands clutching her “bow” as her magic clawed at the world. A fine layer of frost crept over her fingers.

Cullen’s brows drew together in confusion as his eyes fell and landed on the archer behind the wagon with the slit bowstring who avoided his gaze, shame heavy in his eyes. He shoved the thought aside; battle was no time for indulging curiosity. 

“Sit,” Krem ordered him as he turned him back around. Facing the battle again, Cullen could see massive spikes of ice were growing out of the sand. The fierce glittering blue seemed to cut the passage in two, blocking any direct advancement of the varghest. He felt Krem easing him back to sit on the jutting wooden step they used to help load the wagon.

"How many injured?" He demanded of Krem, whose hands were framing his thigh where the pain was worst. "They can climb the rock faces, can’t they? We need to move while the wall holds."

But it wasn't Krem who answered him.

"Four injured, ser. Including you." Corporal Fionn replied as he staggered to the wagon to report, the footing on the sands treacherous at any speed save walking. 

"Put them in the wagon, even if they can walk. Varghest pull the weakest from the pack back to their nests. If we make it hard for them they will probably retreat, especially with one of theirs down." Krem ordered. 

Fionn glanced at Cullen, who nodded wearily. He didn't know enough of the creatures to countermand the order and had never made a habit of arguing for the sake of his rank.

Fionn snapped a quick sign of acknowledgement and then was off, giving orders to get the men back into position and the injured in the wagon, double time. Cullen finally glanced at his thigh which apparently had an arrow in it.

"Oh."

With the surge of adrenaline from the fight he'd barely felt it. Just another distraction on the field to focus past. Now, though...

" _Oh_ ," Krem mocked. "Oh, he says, when one of his own men shoots him. Venhedis! Festis bei umo canavarum, Cullen."

Cullen blinked, unused to Krem saying his name before the troops or swearing in Tevene— for what else could it be?

"You were shielded." Krem continued, eyes snapping up to fix on Dalish, not quite hostile but searching. 

Cullen cut him off as he opened his mouth to continue. 

"I'm a Templar," he reminded him tiredly, "Magic doesn't take to us well. Not even the... helpful kind. I can subdue the resistance if necessary but it doesn’t come naturally to me. Not in combat."

Krem stared at him so levelly that Cullen began to wonder if he only thought the words he'd spoken had been coherent and not some form of heat-induced ravings.

"Make room." Corporal Fionn returned with the other two injured. Krem stepped to one side, his hands and eyes never leaving Cullen.

Cullen watched the two soldiers clamber into the wagon past him. Thank the Maker, neither of them looked as bad as the man already inside. One had a nasty looking gash over her hip but the other seemed mostly bruised and scraped from a tumble that left him uneasy on his feet and limping. Cullen’s shoulders lost some of their tension.

"These lads better have nimble hands to help with, Krem." Stitches called out grimly behind him, "This one's arm is in ribbons."

Cullen had heard that tone from healers before. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Do varghest fear flame or will it draw out more?" He asked.

Cullen had heard strange tell of the beasts. That they were a means of the Maker's judgement; lesser spirits of fire sent to cleanse the world by dragging the guilty to face the Maker for their crimes. He immediately felt ashamed when he thought of the soldier in the wagon behind him, voice shrill with fear and eyes wide in a bloodless face as he'd lain on the sand. Clearly, he'd spent his time poorly: learning rumors when he'd have spent the time better preparing to face such a foe. But in the Circle such a thing had seemed as likely to him as the myth was to be true and there had been no mention of varghest in Rylen's reports on the area.

"They don't fear it, but your boys need the light. Or the archers do at any rate," Krem muttered tightly, before calling out to Rocky and Skinner to help get Cullen into the wagon while jarring his leg as little as possible. 

"Orders are orders, Commander." Krem growled as Rocky bodily lifted Cullen into the wagon bed and Cullen protested, claiming to be needed until the varghest had truly been driven off. "Maker's bloody balls, you agreed: injured in the wagon. Now lie down and stop agitating your leg."

He seemed to want to say something more as Skinner hooked her hands under Cullen’s arms and helped him to his feet in the wagon. Instead, Krem made a sound of frustration and turned away.

Cullen was supported to the rear of the wagon by Skinner. _What did Bull feed his men that let them bodily drag fully armored soldiers about with nonchalance?_ , he wondered as Skinner propped him up against a barrel of water. He watched her slip out the wagon with an armful of torches and pull the flaps firmly shut after her. A moment later the wagon rocked unsteadily as, he presumed, Dalish leapt down. He could hear Krem and Fionn yelling orders that grew more indistinct as they drew away from the wagon. 

"Commander, there are candles in Dalish's satchel to your right." Stitches growled after a long slew of curses in the sudden near dark. Cullen fumbled blindly until he felt rough leather and pulled it closer. Inside his hands brushed over what felt like carved wood, fur, and—worryingly—bone before closing over the candles and flint. It was a moment's work to get the flame lit.

He passed the candle to the woman who was pressing a heavy cloth to her bleeding hip with one hand. The other soldier had already been roped into holding the injured man down as Stitches lived up to his namesake, drawing his needle through the shreds of the man’s arm the second he had light to work again. If only they hadn’t spent all their healing potions after a mother Gurn and her young took exception to their presence, not even two days before, the man could be well on his way to healed. Unfortunately, they had, and though the Chargers had Dalish, she was no healing mage.

“Keep pressure on that injury, soldier. And Commander—we’ll have to see to your leg at the Keep. The arrow keeps the blood in and as long as you don’t give it cause to keep tearing the wound’ll keep.” Stitches said tightly, his voice raising to be heard.

Maker, the man’s screams as Stitches disturbed the flesh…

The wagon lurched to a start and they were on the move. Cullen forced himself to watch the surgery instead of look away as the man struggled weakly, his chest rising and falling fast but seeming to gain no breath, his face drawing even paler under the flickering light. 

A tense silence fell among the rest of the soldiers as the man’s cries grew weaker, more confused than pained. The sharp smell of blood was heavy in the air.

It went on longer than Cullen had the mind to track, seemingly an eternity.

Slowly the man’s cries ceased altogether. Stitches’ hand continued working for a time before stilling and curling into a bloody fist against his thigh.

In the following silence, Cullen lit another candle. 

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.” He spoke. With a heavy swallow the nearest soldier reached for the candle, taking her hand off her wound to take it from him. She repeated the words before handing the candle on again until all present, even Stitches, had said the parting into the fire. When Cullen held the flame again he breathed in sharply, hesitating, and then blew the light out.

The earlier verses of the Canticle of Benedictions stung, unsaid, in Cullen’s mouth.

No one spoke as the wagon dragged on through the sands. At some point Stitches moved over to the woman and began work on her sluggishly bleeding gash as she held the sole candle overhead for light. Even the sound of the wagon wheels sliding on polished stone instead of sand did little to rouse them from their reserved state. 

* * *

Krem stepped into the room Cullen had been given and turned the lock on the door behind him. It was the first Cullen had seen of him since he’d been carried from the wagon to the healer and Cullen’s eyes drank in the lines of his body, searching for injuries and finding none. His gaze lingered on the blood splatter on Krem’s gauntlets. 

Krem tossed his gloves onto the chair that Cullen’s armor was carefully arrayed on.

“You have a problem, Commander.” 

Cullen sat up in the bed he was laid out in, feeling sharper despite the drink they’d given him not an hour before when they’d pulled the arrow and stitched the bloody slit in his thigh shut.

Before Cullen inquired further, Krem had settled on the side of his bed. Krem raised his eyebrow meaningfully as he touched the blanket. After Cullen nodded, Krem lifted the blanket and stared at Cullen’s bared thigh, criss-crossed with bandages where the arrow had dug in. A small red spot had already begun to stain the cloth.

“The healers say I have to stay off my leg for about a week.” Cullen recounted dutifully. “They say my leg’s been healed too many times in this area with magic to make heavy doses of a healing potion advisable. They want to let it heal naturally for a while and see.”

Krem stroked the bare skin by the bandage lightly with one hand. A small shiver went through Cullen at the gentle touch so close to where his body still ached with pain.

“You’re an idiot.” Krem cut into the silence abruptly, “That’s your problem.”

Cullen blinked. He didn’t even get to open his mouth before Krem continued.

“No, shut up. You spend weeks trying to integrate the mages into the ranks, teaching them to skirmish with each other, guard each other’s backs, but _you, you_ don’t think to undergo the same training when you can’t even allow yourself to be _shielded by your allies_.” 

Cullen blinked again, slower, and Krem’s other hand snapped up to cover his mouth before he could refute the accusation. Krems eyes were narrowed dangerously.

“You didn’t get hurt because some idiot was a poor shot, though he should be strung up for shooting so close. No—there are other Templars in the ranks. I’ve worked with them. Tell me why they can take a spell meant to protect them and _their commander can’t._ ” He pulled his hand away to finally let Cullen speak. Only Cullen found he had little to say on that account anymore, his gaze dropping to the blanket where his fist clenched so tightly the knuckles whitened. 

He swallowed the rebuttal that other soldiers had been hurt in the admittedly minor skirmish. It was an unworthy denial, especially since he had heard that their injuries had come from being battered against the sharp rocks by the varghest’s strong tails, injuries the shield spell could not have protected them from in any case. 

Cullen could feel Krem watch him as he frowned, his shoulders tensing the longer he struggled for something to say and found it difficult to speak at all.

“This is about your first Circle.” Krem observed after Cullen’s silence dragged on far too long.

Cullen didn’t need to flinch for Krem to know he’d hit true.

Krem didn’t spare him from the conversation though. He continued to wait, stroking Cullen’s thigh while Cullen fought the stillness of his tongue.

“It’s supposed to be something we only do consciously and at the time we choose,” Cullen eventually bit out, throat sore from clenching every time he tried to force words but failed, “Purge magic. But I can’t stop. Not easily. Not for the last ten years.” Not even after ceasing to take lyrium, though the effect had slowly lessened since then as the substance worked its way out of his system glacially. It was the only reason the shield had tentatively taken at all.

The _why_ behind the purging was clear to them both for better or worse.

Maker, why weren’t _those_ memories swallowed by the lyrium?

He closed his eyes tightly. His breath came unevenly as he drew it in, Cullen’s normal control rattled by pain and drink. 

Krem’s hand left his thigh and settled loosely on the back of his neck. The mattress creaked and Cullen felt Krem’s lips brush against his own as he rested his forehead against Cullen’s. 

It was too much. 

He made a ragged noise and pressed into the suggestion of a kiss, taking comfort how it was offered. His fingers found Krem’s arm and he clung to him tightly as Krem kissed him, easing from a slower tentative touch of the lips to something more fierce, possessive. 

“Breathe,” Krem commanded him after pulling back slightly to do the same. His voice sounded curiously hoarse. “Tell me: your superiors in Kirkwall, they knew?”

Cullen made a sound of acknowledgement before taking in an unsteady breath and answering, “Meredith thought it prudent. A good example, if only it could be emulated.”

Krem was quiet for a moment and when he spoke again his voice was measured, carefully pitched not to alarm. It instantly made Cullen dread his words.

“Then it may well have been. But your allies now have magic and it wasn’t a spell that felled you today.” 

Cullen’s fingers tightened around Krem’s arm.

“Work with me on this.” Krem said quietly, “I don’t want to watch you go down, Cullen.”

“The effect is lessening…” Cullen tried, avoiding Krem’s eye. “It will disappear by itself as long as I continue to not take lyrium.”

Yet it had been months and still...

“And in that time?” Krem asked gently. He didn’t have to add that the symptom disappearing didn’t cure the cause. Cullen knew it as well as he. Knew that the bouts of purging magic revealed the rot, the _fear_ , festering beneath.

Krem ran his fingers through the short hair at the back of Cullen’s neck and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

When Cullen hesitated, an answer on his tongue, Krem shushed him.

“Tell me your answer tomorrow, Cullen. Do you want me to fetch you a bottle of wine before I go?” 

“No… stay?” 

It was a terrible idea. He knew it from the moment he spoke. Tongues were bound to talk and he was injured besides. 

Krem stayed.

In the morning when Krem repeated his offer, neither of them was surprised when Cullen promised to try.


	2. Call for Company

Knight-Captain Rylen stopped in the next morning, after Krem had left to find breakfast. He looked much the same as Cullen had seen him last: haggard and brown, his tattoos more memorable than his modest looks. Cullen couldn’t help but give him a sympathetic look when Rylen walked through the door with the air of a man facing execution.

“No, don’t make that face, Cullen. You’re the one who took an arrow to the leg.” Rylen pulled up a chair to the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough.” Cullen answered, sitting up straighter and trying to put aside his frustration that he was confined to bed upon his arrival at the Keep when it was clear that an extra hand was needed. Rylen looked run off his feet and Cullen was supposed to be able to give him support to get the Keep into order for the Inquisition’s main forces. Now, though…

“Hm,” Rylen eyed him assessingly. “Well enough to hear the newest reports on the Keep?”

He was. And by the length of Rylen’s account several important things had changed during Cullen’s travels. A pure water source for the Keep had been found for one but, naturally, there was a problem. Varghest.

“I did happen to notice them.” Cullen said dryly while Rylen gave an apologetic shrug.

“They began harassing the travel routes when we started fighting them for control of the oasis. Nasty things. Got poison in their talons, apparently. I had our healers look over your men, though.” He added quickly, catching Cullen’s worried look.

“Thank you. Do we have the men to rout the vermin?” Cullen asked.

Rylen looked grim.

“In terms of numbers? Absolutely. But that choking fog I wrote to you about? It now looks like there’s  _ another _ Venatori stronghold on the other side. Watchmen have seen movement along an old wall but visibility is bad enough that we don’t have any trustworthy estimates of their strength. I can’t send enough soldiers out to kill the varghest properly with a viper at my back waiting to strike a weakened Keep. And given that none of my scouts have been able to track down whatever hole the darkspawn are crawling out of I’m given to thinking it’s probably behind that fog too.”

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen said with feeling. He kneaded his eyes while Rylen finished.

“We’re currently keeping a small force by the oasis to try misdirect and chase off any varghest that return. It’s all we can manage with things the way they are.”

“I didn’t bring enough men with me for this.” Cullen frowned, dropping his hand. “I’ll have to write—send word to Leliana to dispatch a portion of the army early. It’ll tip our hand about the assault on Adamant and our rallying point early, but we can’t move through the area with that force posed to strike at our side anyway.”

“Looks that way.” Rylen sighed.

They sat in mutual silence, considering the situation. If only they could get a fair estimate of the Venatori’s numbers… It struck Cullen as odd that the second fort would have allowed the Keep to fall without sending aid, but he supposed any number of things might account for it: the swiftness with which the Keep fell, the fog blocking their view of the situation, the difficulty and time it might take to troops along whatever unknown path connected their hold out to the Keep, or a lack of sufficient numbers to assist in the first place... it could be any of them. He simply didn't have the knowledge to speculate further or draw any conclusions.

A knock on the door broke him of his thoughts. 

Rylen answered it, pausing when he was greeted by an unfamiliar face and uniform. Krem looked a little startled as well, but he hid it with greater ease than Rylen, who wasn’t particularly trying.

“Ah, Rylen,” Cullen said quickly as Rylan’s brow creased in confusion at the two bowls of food in Krem’s hands. “You should meet Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi. He’s one of the Bull’s Chargers: a mercenary group in the service of the Inquisition. He’s been indispensable with our efforts to integrate the mages into the main body of the Inquisition—”

Krem sent him what could have passed for a mild look if you were unfamiliar with the way his eyes tightened dangerously.

“—though he prefers to be called Krem.” Cullen concluded hastily.

“That might be the most Tevinter name I’ve ever heard.” Rylen noted evenly, “But I suppose if anyone is familiar with fighting with a mage at their back, it’d be a Vint.” 

Cullen hadn’t given any thought about any potential bad blood between Starkhaven and Tevinter until that moment and had to fight against intervening when Rylen continued:

“You a mage, then?”

Krem’s mouth went crooked as he smiled unapologetically.

“No, though I did serve under them in the Tevinter army.”

It became apparent to Cullen that Krem wasn’t going to be pulling any punches either and he reconsidered his stance on intervention.

“Which has been invaluable in our assessment of Venatori tactics,” Cullen broke in, “And to introduce you both properly: Krem, this is Knight-Captain Rylen, my second-in-command. He has command of the Keep and will be helping to organize the assault on Adamant.”

“A pleasure, Knight-Captain.” Krem said, passably convincingly. He glanced at the bowls in his hand, though Cullen wasn’t sure if it was to explain his lack of a handshake or salute or to suggest that he had been in the process of bringing Cullen his meal before Rylen intervened and he’d rather like to get back to doing that. 

Rylen seemed to take it as the latter. 

“We can continue after you’ve eaten, Cullen. I’ll send word to the kitchen that you’ve already had food sent for. I’ll come by again after the healer’s taken a look at you too.”

He gave Cullen a curt nod when Cullen thanked him and saw himself out, stepping around Krem with a short “well met” as he passed.

Krem turned his head to watch him disappear down the hall.

“He from Starkhaven?” He asked, “He’s got the right accent for it.”

Cullen sighed.

“Yes. I hope his manner didn’t offend you. He’s been accused of being overly straightforward before, but he’s a good man. He— here, come in.”

Krem rested one of the bowls on the dresser momentarily before closing the door. He sank into the chair Rylen had occupied not long before and held out what looked to be a bowl of gruel to Cullen, who made a face.

Krem chuckled.

“A disappointment, right? To be thinking the whole way through this blasted desert that we’d at least get a decent meal at the other end and then: gruel for breakfast again. Though we should have seen it coming considering how the rest of the trip turned out.”

He smacked Cullen on the arm affectionately before turning to his own bowl.

“You were saying?” He prompted, dragging his spoon through the watery mess.

“He’s a good man,” Cullen repeated before continuing on. “A bit solemn, perhaps, but he knows what’s important. I doubt he’ll give you grief over where you’re from. Not truly.” 

“Sounds like you worked with him before this whole mess.” 

“I did. Well. In a manner of speaking. We met in Kirkwall after the explosion at the chantry. He was part of a relief effort Starkhaven sent to the city in the aftermath. I… convinced him to join the Inquisition afterwards.”

He was surprised by Krem’s laugh and wink.

“Oh,  _ convinced  _ him, did you?”

Cullen stared at him for a moment before the sly insinuation of Krem’s words suddenly made sense. The tips of his ears turned pink.

“Is that why our spymistress and Lady Montilyet drag you to all those noble parties? So you can  _ convince _ people to send funds and cement alliances?”

“ _ Maker _ , Krem! No! I- what-”

That only made Krem laugh and Cullen buried his face against the heel of one of his hands, carefully cupping the bowl with the other to prevent it from spilling.

“Maker’s breath.” He sighed as Krem finally,  _ finally _ had his fill of pleasure at Cullen’s reaction.

“You’re too easy, Commander.” Krem teased. “You’ve even told me that I’m the first man to share your bed and you  _ still  _ thought I was serious.”

Cullen gave him a flat look that prompted a few more chuckles from Krem.

“One day I’m not going to react and you’ll be speechless.”

“That’ll be the day.” Krem allowed indulgently.

“Anyway,” Cullen pressed on, intent on salvaging the direction of the conversation along with the shreds of his dignity. “You should also know that Rylen was a Templar before he joined the Inquisition.”

“Explains the stick up his ass when he thought I was a mage.”

“Krem.”

“Maybe I should have borrowed Pavus’s line about needing blood magic sacrifices twice a day or my withered, cruel heart will just stop beating. I bet the next words out of his mouth would be ‘I knew it!’. Well, if he didn’t just stick a blade in me first. Hm. I’m not so keen on that.”

Cullen deliberately did not pinch the bridge of his nose even though he could feel a headache coming on.

“I’d really rather you didn’t.” He said wearily before taking his first real bite of his food. Thankfully Krem stopped giving his head reason to throb and instead ate alongside him in companionable silence until their bowls were all but scraped clean. Gruel it may have been, but it was food and the trip had exhausted them both even with a solid night’s rest behind them.

“How’s your thigh?” Krem asked as he reached for Cullen’s bowl, stacking it with his and putting it aside on Cullen’s night table.

“Better before I thought about it.” Cullen said, dragging a hand over his face. To be honest it was like an unending roaring ache with sharp spikes of pain that made his breath catch whenever he shifted wrong. Or breathed wrong. Or, well, existed, really. But at least he had practice ignoring long-standing pain both from past wounds and the side effects of his lyrium withdrawal.

“I might need a favor.” He realized.

“You need me to get the healer sooner?” Krem offered, sitting forward and eyeing Cullen’s thigh carefully, though he couldn’t see the injury through the blankets.

“Ah, not quite.” Cullen scratched the back of his neck. “I need you to lock the door. I have to, ah, use the privvy. Preferably before the healer comes and, Maker forbid, tries to help me. And I’d rather not have to walk to the door and back to lock it after you’ve gone so that no one—”

— _ walks in to find out that their Commander shares less in common with other men than one would think. _

Cullen found as the years wore on he thought on it less, yet there was still the undeniable fact that Krem was the first man he’d ever met like himself, and he was keen to keep that secret.

He trailed off, but Krem’s face had gone hard with understanding.

“Right.” 

Cullen felt guilty as Krem headed to the door. He hadn’t intended to remind Krem of his own revealing experience with the healer in his army days.

“Krem—”

“You need help getting to the privvy?” Krem cut in quickly, leaving little doubt that he’d rather not hear the ‘I’m sorry’ that was about to leave Cullen’s lips. 

“No. I can manage.” He threw off the blanket and drew himself up, taking most of his weight on his good leg while bracing one hand against the wall for support. Carefully, he stepped across the room, hand sliding across the wall.

After a moment Krem spoke somewhere behind him.

“You still got a wine bottle about somewhere? Or did you finish it off while I was gone?”

“On the floor. Other side of the bed.” Cullen managed with a heavy breath.

He heard Krem search for it as he relieved himself. By the time he had fixed his smallclothes back in place and turned around, Krem was seated on the edge of his bed, knocking back the bottle that had been almost half full a few moments ago. Cullen highly doubted it was anywhere near as full anymore. He eased down next to Krem, grateful for the hand of support the other man gave him as he lowered himself down. Without being asked, Krem passed him the bottle and Cullen took a long drink himself. If the sudden violence with which his thigh hurt was any indicator, he’d been a fool for denying Krem’s offer of help. But his pride insisted it was worth it.

He handed the bottle back to Krem and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 

“I should head out before your second in command comes back. Save you the questions.” Krem said after several long moments of silence. He placed the bottle on Cullen’s night stand and stood.

“Let me at least get you back in bed, though.”

This time he didn’t deny the help. Cullen nodded tiredly and let Krem support the weight of his leg when he lay back and tried to swing his legs onto the mattress to lie down properly. Krem pulled the blanket back over him. But before he drew away, Cullen caught his wrist loosely.

Krem gave him an inscrutable look as Cullen pressed a kiss to the back of his hand before releasing him. 

“Come by again?” Cullen asked quietly. He wouldn’t deny Krem his time to put his thoughts in order. Not after so callously dredging up the past. But it wasn’t in his nature to let Krem disappear back into the pain of the past if he could help.

Krem let out a long, slow breath.

“This evening. After dinner.” He agreed. He rested the palm of his hand on the top of Cullen’s head—a fleeting touch—and then turned to go.

Cullen watched him leave with a heavy heart.

* * *

A few hours later Cullen had a new wrapping on his thigh and his bed was covered in maps and scout reports.

Rylen tapped what appeared to be a small triangle on the map just south of the Nazaire’s pass camp and Cullen followed the gesture with interest.

“There has to be more than just the two symbols we’ve turned up.” Rylen was saying.

“A Chantry trail? Out here?” Cullen wondered, shaking his head. He had no idea what pilgrims would seek out in the wasteland. Perhaps there was an old Chantry temple buried under the sands somewhere. Perhaps there was nothing anymore. Or something from before the second Blight? But it was strengthening to find signs of the faithful, even diminished ones, in such dark times.

“Perhaps after Adamant…” Cullen mused aloud and Rylen made a small noise of agreement. They both knew that they had neither the men nor the liberty to track down wild fennec trails as things stood. 

“Speaking of more pressing matters, I had a wild thought earlier.” Rylen said, shaking his head as he filled Cullen’s wine cup for the second time since they shared a meal. “You may think me mad, though.” 

Cullen raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to continue.

“We won’t be able to dig out the sulfur pits to cross over to the Venatori hold out. And if there’s another way around, my bet it’s those big blasted stone doors on either end of the valley.” 

Rylen made a vague motion toward the map where he’d pointed out their location to Cullen earlier.

“We couldn’t take those down with anything less than Qunari blackpowder or whatever it was that apostate used in Kirkwall to bring down the Chantry.”

“I had much the same thought.” Cullen murmured, uneasily.

“So let’s just… go over it.”

He made to continue quickly when Cullen glanced his way, eyes widening with surprise.

“A bridge, Cullen. Over the sulfur pits. When you write for more men and supplies, send for caravans of wood. We’ll cross over the fog like an unruly river.”

Cullen sat back, eyebrows still raised as he pondered the unusual solution. Rylen had surprised him before with some of the measures he’d suggested in Kirkwall as well, but he’d never steered him wrong. Especially not with construction. Cullen dimly recalled Rylen telling him at one point that he was the son of a stonemason.

“How much lumber do you think you’ll need? What manpower?”

“Six wagonloads, by the estimate of me and my engineers. I think whatever reinforcements arrive can be put to good work on it.” Rylen nearly smiled then. Not quite a first, but it warmed Cullen to see it. Rylen’s face had seen too many years to have so few laugh lines. “I did think to ask before wasting your time on the idea.”

Cullen smiled as he took another sip of his drink. 

“It’ll be in my letter.”

* * *

Krem came that night but didn’t stay. Nor did he stay the next night, though he caught Cullen in a kiss before he left and promised he’d bring breakfast. Cullen wondered if there’d been rumors already given that Krem stopped by several times during the days.

He needed less drink to sleep through the nights now, though the lack meant that he lay in bed feeling the absence of Krem’s body beside him. He’d gone longer without Krem before, of course, as the Chargers were often deployed even while Bull traveled alongside the Inquisitor. Even as they traveled to the Keep they had rolled their palettes out in different parts of the camp— Krem with his men and Cullen in the center. But Cullen caught himself reaching across the bed in a sleepy haze on the third morning and felt distinctly put out when his fingers closed on nothing but sheets.

His general frustration over being bedridden and Krem’s absence sparked an admittedly unseemly fight with the healer on the fourth day. But he’d gotten his wish: he’d be allowed to leave  _ if _ , the healer stressed, he moved about on a crutch for short times, slowly, and with caution. 

Cullen intended to consider the advice, at the very least. Confinement was not something he took easily.

Rylen was the one to bring Cullen the crutch and the way he slowly raised his eyebrow at Cullen left Cullen no doubts that the healer had immediately gone to complain to the Knight-Captain after leaving his room. 

“Perhaps a tour of the Keep?” Rylen offered, keeping any rebuke, if he had one, to himself as Cullen reached for the crutch with unrestrained relief.

Rylen guided him along the upper court of the Keep where there were a number of workbenches and tents set up, each surrounded by a flurry of activity as soldiers worked to build all manner of doors and barricades to replace the rotten and missing furnishings they had inherited. 

“Are there materials to repair the stonework?” Cullen asked as they skirted a collapsed corner. He squinted at the rest of the wall as though it may also choose to come down at any moment.

“Some. I’ve had it sent to the lower battlements to repair the worst of the damage there. Much of what we’ve had we’ve had to scavenge from debris in other parts of the Keep.”

“It’s a pity to have the men work under this heat for an outpost we will probably abandon before the year is over,” Cullen admitted a few minutes later as they rest against a wall in the shade. He held a hand over his eyes and watched the soldiers hurry about, decked in full uniform. He, at least, had the luxury of forgoing his armor on account of his injury. “An old keep like this would never survive a proper siege, but we’ve got to hold it until the assault. The only consolation is that it seems to be built in a similar age to Adamant. If all goes well our siege engines will make short work of their defenses.”

“Experience says that the easier the shell is to crack the more rotten the inside will be.” Rylen said after a small sound of agreement.

Cullen grimaced.

“That’s the Maker’s own truth.”

It was a mercy that Leliana’s spy network was effective enough to track down and disrupt the Venatori supply lines at nearly every turn. The extended distance and secrecy with which their goods had to be transported meant that they were fighting at a disadvantage whenever it came to establishing and maintaining opposing camps with the Inquisition. There would be no Venatori siege engines in the field, at the very least, though the Venatori probably did not even consider that they would need them. 

Cullen took a deep breath and released it slowly before he fell back into old, unjust thoughts about such arrogance and mages. Maker bless him, he believed,  _ knew,  _ better. But the thoughts still came first before experience and reason brushed them aside. 

“So, the lieutenant's men. What sort of mercenaries are they?”

Cullen was jerked out of his thoughts by Rylen’s question.

“The Chargers? Shock troops. Skirmishers. We’ve been sending them on risky recovery missions, mostly, though we intend to have them at the forefront during the assault.”

Rylen nodded thoughtfully but said nothing. It was an odd silence and as it stretched on Cullen was suddenly aware of the scratch of his shirt against his skin, the way his thigh ached, and a plague of other pains and nuisances as he shifted his weight as best he could with only one good leg. Rylen looked ahead but Cullen felt his gaze upon him somehow anyway, a wanting silence between them.

“I’ve been thinking of sending them to hunt down the varghest.” Cullen said perhaps a little too quickly.

“Oh?”

“Krem, if not more of the Chargers, has had experience fighting them before. They’re a small, efficient force and the rest of our men are accounted for. If we could kill the beasts or drive them off our supply lines will be safer.” Cullen explained. “Do you have duplicates of the maps you’ve shown me? We can put together any reports of varghest sighting and attacks and mark a route for them.”

“I can arrange that. We can put the details together and meet with the lieutenant tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Cullen hid his disappointment. He hadn’t seen any of Krem’s men in the upper courtyard. Presumably they were in the lower one or within one of the buildings below where Cullen couldn’t easily travel on his injured leg. He’d hesitated to send for Krem directly over the last few days, lacking a clear professional reason for an extended visit. It was true that he didn’t necessarily  _ have  _ to have one on hand, but he’d noticed more than a few men stare at him on their walk. Unlike the troops at Skyhold which had months to lose their interest, these men were still curious about their Commander and hungry for the details that made him great or human. He was… still unused to how that gaze could flow over into rumor. Krem had every reason to avoid the piqued interest of others and Cullen didn’t want to encourage heads to turn his way.

He turned to find Rylen’s eyes actually on him. 

“Anything else to show me today or should we head in?” Cullen asked.

“There’s no rush and you’re supposed to be resting. We can look at more odds and ends on the upper level over the next few days.” Rylen said before asking: “Did the healer tell you when you’d be back on both your feet, again?”

“Somewhere between a week or two. A month at least for it to be truly sealed.” Cullen groused as though it were a personal affront.

“Not terrible.” Rylen said pragmatically. “And all the more reason to space out your tour. There’s not much to see out here beside sand once you’ve walked through all the levels, though I’d like a spar when you’re able.” Rylen pressed a hand to his shoulder briefly to help Cullen straighten up from where he had been leaning against the wall before escorting him back inside.

* * *

Naturally, when Cullen least expected him, Krem turned up. 

Cullen had been dozing, nearly asleep when there came a soft knock at his door. He very nearly closed his eyes and ignored the sound—surely there would be a louder knock if it were an emergency?—before the thought of  _ who _ might knock quietly hit him.

He levered himself to his feet and limped to the door on his crutch.

“Krem,” He breathed, a smile stealing across his face as the door swung open.

“Can I come in?”

It didn’t escape Cullen that Krem leaned over the threshold, bracing his hand on the wood of the doorframe casually before asking. He wore such a charming grin that it made Cullen aware of the sudden quickening of his pulse, his drowsiness slipping away.

“Right, yes.” He managed, stepping back to allow Krem to slide in and close the door behind him. “You seem pleased.”

Krem’s grin turned smug.

“Figured out the patrol pattern around your rooms. Took a while, but your bed is far finer than mine. Thought you wouldn’t mind if I bunked with you.” Krem teased.

“Of course. Let me just—” He reached around Krem to turn the lock, though he was in no hurry to have his hand back by his side. He trailed his fingers around Krem’s hip instead and lifted his eyes to meet Krem’s.

“Should I help you out of your armor?” He offered.

“Mm, that’s a little forward, Commander. What happened to kissing me first?”

Cullen opened his mouth to protest—he  _ had _ only truly meant to help Krem get ready for bed —but Krem’s mouth closed over his and he lost his words in a soft sound of pleasure. 

He felt the familiar weight of Krem’s hands rest on his shoulders, then slide up his neck until they were cupping either side of Cullen’s face while they kissed. Cullen’s fingers tightened around Krem’s hip and he cursed his thigh for aching as he shifted his weight and stepped forward to close as much space between them as possible. When he drew back to breathe, Krem nuzzled his cheek against Cullen’s.

“You’re getting the start of an unsightly beard, Cullen. I think I much prefer the stubble.”

“I do as well,” Cullen murmured ruefully, “I’ll shave in the morning. Kiss me again?”

The second kiss was tamer, less of a need and more of a tease of Krem’s tongue against Cullen’s own. 

If he’d been well, perhaps Krem would have guided him back until he fell upon the bed. He’d kiss and massage Krem’s breasts until the ache of being bound for days on end eased and Krem was warm and pliant under his hands. He wanted Krem to fall asleep on him as he usually did: bare chest pressed on top of Cullen’s as he buried his face against Cullen’s neck and murmured nonsensical sounds strung together as he dozed off. Tevene, perhaps. Cullen had never asked. 

Instead Krem pressed a kiss to his forehead and took his hand, walking with Cullen as he slowly made his way back to his side of the bed and settled back against the sheets. 

“Let me see your thigh?”

Cullen dutifully rolled down the loose pants he’d taken to wearing now that he’d been released from bed rest. The wound was still bandaged although the strips of cloth were unmarred by blood. The skin around had lost its angry pink flush and settled back to being as pale as the rest of him. Though Cullen knew the skin directly around the puncture was a red so deep it was nearly purple, the wound was clearly on its way to recovery. 

“No infection, then? That’s good.” Krem asked, brushing his fingers around the edges of the bandages.

“They treated it with honey,” Cullen shrugged before catching sight of Krem’s face, torn somewhere between disgust and contempt.

“ _ Honey? _ ”

“It’s good for wounds.” Cullen defended, drawing his brows together in confusion. “Don’t they… in Tevinter? Truly? You’ve never heard of it?”

Krem looked at him like he’d been possessed.

“You southerners are barbaric. You’d deny a mage’s healing touch, but you’d gladly pour food into your injuries.”

Cullen shrugged again. He was no healer; he couldn’t explain the whys of it. But he’d seen it work both on his own wounds and on others’. 

“Come to bed?” He asked.

Krem shook his head as though to dismiss the folly of Fereldens and set about stripping off his armor. There was a bit of a promise in the way he unfastened his belt and pulled off his gloves, fingers sliding along his wrist longer and slower than necessary, though they both knew there’d be nothing more stirring than sharing a bed tonight. Cullen watched anyway. He drank in the sight of Krem’s bared legs and thick thighs, his strong arms and the brief glimpse of stomach as Krem stretched his hands high overhead. He wanted to kneel at his feet and suck him. 

Cullen blew the candle out and turned his thoughts to something less arousing as Krem slid beneath the sheets beside him. 

Though he needn’t have bothered, since Krem immediately said, “I spoke to Dalish about practicing magic on you” the same way that most people said “I thought about buying a rug” and Cullen’s stomach clenched.

“Krem, we’re abed...”

Krem dragged the back of his hand down the length of Cullen’s arm under the sheets. A warm, solid touch.

“I know. Not now. She’s awful at healing spells or I’d have brought her in sooner. But the barrier spell, or perhaps the one that makes you seem less noticeable. I forget the name. Just practice letting it sit on you. I’ve thought of a reason for her to come by tomorrow.”

“It can’t be tomorrow.” Cullen cut in quickly.

“Cullen.” 

The quiet, understanding way Krem said his name shamed him. 

Cullen closed his eyes and tried not to sound as relieved as he felt to have a reason why it couldn’t work. He’d sworn to try, but he could feel the tenseness spreading through him at the suggestion. The almost ache in his blood. He was bitterly glad that Krem wasn’t a mage, couldn’t sense the way Cullen’s abilities were no doubt escaping him now. 

“Rylen and I are briefing you and the Chargers on a mission tomorrow.” 

Silence. Then:

“A mission.”

“The varghest…” Cullen explained, focused keenly on the way Krem’s hand had stopped its soothing movement and rested limply by his wrist. “We haven’t the men. Well. We do. But there’s a Venatori stronghold beyond the fog…”

Cullen could feel himself blathering. Couldn’t stop himself as he recited his conversation with Rylen in a dozen fractured half-phrases. 

He could feel Krem’s silence too. It wasn’t the quiet of someone listening intently. It was… disappointed. Or so it seemed to Cullen until Krem stroked his hand over his and Cullen let out a long breath of relief halfway through his next rambling sentence.

Krem took a moment before he spoke.

“I understand. We can talk more in the morning.” 

Cullen hesitated then laced his fingers between Krem’s own. Krem ran the calloused pad of his thumb over the back of Cullen’s hand in slow, repetitive strokes that Cullen fixed his mind to counting. Despite the tension in his body, he fell asleep before noting the first few dozen.

* * *

Cullen awoke disoriented, the last traces of his dream fleeing him before he could quite grasp onto them. If the pounding of his heart was any indicator then it was probably for the best. 

Beside him Krem stirred. He sat up in bed, squinting at Cullen.

“You alright?” He asked Cullen.

“Yes. Sorry… did I make noise?”

Krem grunted and rubbed at his shoulder sleepily. The predawn light creeping through the window was just bright enough for Cullen to see the pinched look on Krem’s face.

He glanced back at Krem’s shoulder. It was covered with ragged scar tissue from an old wound. Took a blow from an axe, Krem had said. They had to cut flesh lost to infection and even Stitches’ poultices and the healing services of an apostate couldn’t knit everything back together properly. He’d lost some of the ease and precision with a sword and taken up the maul instead. It struck Cullen suddenly that the way the desert waxed and waned hot and cold must be causing the tissue to ache fiercely. The persistent freeze of Skyhold had, at least.

“Here,” He said as he sat up beside Krem. “Let me.”

Krem let his hand drop as Cullen’s moved to take over. He kneaded the muscle slowly, rolling his thumb into the thick of the scar and the tension beneath. 

Krem grumbled in approval, flinching occasionally as Cullen’s fingers worked out knots.

“Pity we’ve no hot cloths.” Cullen muttered. Krem’s shoulder always loosened faster with a hot press on the muscle. 

“It’s fine.”

“I could call for some.” Cullen ventured. It hadn’t escaped him that Krem felt the need to sneak into his room or that he’d been rather scarce since they arrived. He immediately felt guilty that he hadn’t made a greater effort to call for his company rather than leave the burden on Krem. His injury, the need to be caught up on the situation of the keep, and his own reticence to be the subject of gossip could only account for so much callousness. He didn’t want Krem to believe that he intended to slight him or that he was ashamed of his company.

“Mmm,” Krem drew the sound out thoughtfully before repeating himself. “It’s fine.”

Cullen leaned forward to press a kiss against his shoulder before continuing to rub. 

“You know, I bet your wound’s going to need the same treatment in a few months.” Krem mused. 

“Fantastic.” Cullen muttered. He hoped not. The scars over his chest where his breasts used to be didn’t ache, though his knee that had  _ nothing  _ wrong with it had grown weak, unreliable, and sometimes painful since he quit lyrium. The mysteries of the body, he supposed.

They fell into silence while Cullen worked on Krem’s shoulder. Then:

“This mission… how long do you think we’ll be assigned to it?”

“No more than a week, I’d say. We think there’s about a dozen of the beasts out there and it doesn’t matter whether they are killed or driven off so long as we secure the trails again. We haven’t been able to send as many scouting parties or post many watchmen with them about. Rylen said that his initial scouts were… torn apart.”

“Charming. I’m glad that made you think of me for the job then.”

Cullen would have felt sheepish but for the amusement in Krem’s voice. He sobered a little before he spoke, though.

“If I made a mistake in volunteering the Chargers for this, you should tell me. I am unfamiliar with the men here and their capabilities and most of them have been assigned to other vital tasks. You’ve faced varghest before and work well together. But I remember how Dalish and Skinner did not take well to the heat.”

Krem didn’t wave Cullen’s suggestion inside. He took a minute to think it over as Cullen rubbed his shoulder. Krem had always been careful to guard the Chargers’ autonomy under the Inquisition and Bull had given him full support in declining any mission that was a poor use of their skills.

“As long as we’ve got enough water and good maps we’ll do fine. But Dalish and Grim should stay behind.”

“Grim?” Not Skinner?

Krem heard his unvoiced question.

“Turns out he’d been hiding how terribly he took the sun. He’s as pale as Dalish, though, so I should have thought of it.” There was some self-censure in Krem’s voice. “But Skinner won some sort of lightweight scarf from one of the soldiers here and has refused to take it off since. It’s apparently doing her a world of good to be out of the light directly.” 

“If you’d like me to assign men to your command for this--”

“Nah, we’d rather keep to ourselves. Got our own way of doing things.” Krem dismissed the offer casually. 

Cullen made a sound of understanding. 

“Here, is your shoulder any better?” He asked after a few more minutes. Krem’s skin had reddened from all the attention. 

Krem rolled his shoulder experimentally then reached his hands overhead and laced them together as he leaned back slightly, stretching his arm, shoulder, and back. He turned to Cullen with a soft smile playing at his mouth.

“Yeah. That’s good. Thanks.” 

Cullen wasn’t particularly surprised when Krem leaned over to press a quick kiss to his lips. He might have jumped a little when Krem’s fingers trailed lightly up the inside thigh of his uninjured leg though. 

“You said you’d be back on your feet soon?” 

Swallowing slowly, Cullen nodded. The corners of Krem’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Well, we’ll have something to look forward to when I get back, then.” 

Then apparently Cullen’s face did something embarrassing like frown in disappointment because Krem laughed and leaned in to steal a second, lingering, kiss. Afterwards he still looked amused, though something a little like concern stole into his features.

“You won’t like it, but in the meantime there’s something I want you to think about, alright?”

Cullen braced himself.


	3. Trials of Trust

They met with Rylen not long after breakfast.

Krem looked the picture of the neat, obedient soldier. Or he would if he wouldn’t cock a cheeky eyebrow at Cullen every few seconds and smirk whenever Cullen looked back at him witheringly. Cullen had wanted to don his own armor for the meeting, but Krem refused to help him ‘injure himself further through his own stupidity’. Eventually—a stubbed toe and needing to sit down and clutch his protesting thigh later—he’d had to give up his plans and stick to the loose tunic and pants that had seen him through the last few days and that Krem had  _ thoughtfully _ laid out for him. 

Rylen glanced up at them as they walked into his office together, Krem’s shoulder less than a hand’s width from Cullen’s. 

“Knight-Captain.” Krem greeted him after Rylen and Cullen exchanged short pleasantries.

“Lieutenant. Has Cullen briefed you?”

“Only the broad details.” Krem lied glibly. 

“Of course.”

Cullen looked at them sideways in turns. There was nothing he could quite put his finger on about their interactions, but Krem’s smile was a shade too practiced to be genuine and Rylen was far more reserved than he was with Cullen. Granted, they had grown to be close confidants in Kirkwall, but still…

“The map, Rylen?” Cullen prompted and Rylen nodded. He unrolled a newly copied map of the Western Approach and gestured them to step closer. Cullen leaned on his crutch heavily and leaned forward as Rylen turned the map to face Krem.

“By our estimates there’s about a dozen of the creatures. Here are the areas they’ve been spotted in. Each ‘x’ represents a single spotting.” Rylen tapped several locations on the map. While they tended to cluster around the oasis the Inquisition had taken control of there were still a few scattered sightings along the supply and scout routes. Or, there had been the last time Cullen had seen the original maps. These maps lacked a lot of the detail of the originals—no surprise as they had been drawn to consolidate many different places of interest to the Inquisition and this one was for a single purpose—but Cullen’s eye picked out several camp locations and scout trails that were slightly… off from what he recalled. This had not been what they discussed.

He looked up deliberately slowly, meeting Rylen’s eye as Krem brushed his hand over the map and examined the marks. Rylen’s face gave nothing away but the intent behind his level gaze was obvious: he was asking for Cullen’s trust. 

Cullen closed his eyes briefly but didn’t interrupt as Rylen continued.

“If we can eliminate at least half the varghest then movement through the area will be vastly improved. Given that they’re attacking larger numbers of our men with increasing frequency, you probably won’t have a hard time finding them. The real task will be making sure they don’t flee the encounters.”

“Scavengers and opportunists are tricky that way,” Krem agreed absently.

“That they are.”

Krem looked up slowly to meet Rylen’s eye and Cullen found himself compelled to speak quickly.

“You’ll have whatever supplies you request. Unless the varghest prove to be unusually evasive, we don’t think they will be able to avoid detection and elimination by the Chargers for more than a week or so. We’ve got their only water source. They’ll have to reappear sooner or later.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Krem agreed as though Cullen’s direction was a suggestion. Then he casually elaborated: “We’ll be leaving two of my men here, though. They aren’t taking to the heat well.” 

“Of course.” Cullen agreed, catching Rylen’s eye and subtly shaking his head as Rylen’s brows creased into the beginnings of a frown. If Cullen could be asked to trust Rylen in this then Rylen could make this allowance. His lips pressed together into a thin line. They were going to have  _ words _ after this. And, judging by the way Rylen kept his face carefully blank under Cullen’s scrutiny, he knew it as well.

Krem rolled the map up, ready to tuck it under his arm before glancing at Cullen for permission, belatedly.

“It’s for your use.” Cullen said, answering the unasked question. “And if you have any questions about the area, Rylen will be free to answer them.”

Maker preserve Cullen, because he would not be the one to overtly carry this strange and confusing charade out further. 

“I’ll be available this evening to go over further details if you send a messenger to arrange a time.” Rylen agreed, making an easy gesture with his hand.

Cullen saw that the meeting was beginning to draw to a close and he felt a pre-battle focus descend on him as he thought to the conversation ahead. His gut told him with the unerring certainty of faith that it was going to be charged, to say the least. But Rylen had one last antagonism in store.

“How old are you?” Rylen asked Krem out of nowhere as Krem put the map away safely.

Krem didn’t even bat an eyelash.

“Thirty one.”

Rylen narrowed his eyes slightly, taking Krem’s measure again visibly.

“You look to be ten years younger.”

“That’s the upside of massaging your face with the blood of the innocent every morning. Keeps you looking young. Old Tevinter trick.” There was something sharp beneath Krem’s bland delivery. “If that’s all?”

“It is. The Commander and I have some matters to discuss. Dismissed.”

Krem made a sarcastic approximation of a bow, eyes darting to Cullen—probably seeing far too much judging by the slight narrowing of his eyes—and then he was gone.

Cullen rounded on Rylen with a calm that he didn’t feel.

“I’ll let the guards know that we’re not to be disturbed.” Rylen said, unperturbed, and turned toward the door.

* * *

“What were you  _ thinking _ ?” Cullen demanded. He wanted to pace the length of Rylen’s office, but couldn’t. Clenched his fist around his crutch furiously. “This wasn’t what we agreed on yesterday. I’m not even sure what this is.  _ Maker _ , Rylen.”

He swept the hand that he’d waved around through his hair to calm down. It didn’t help. He wasn’t even sure what Rylen was working at with the changed map and the inexcusable hostility he’d shown Krem. But he’d deliberately gone around Cullen… for what end?

“No, it wasn’t.” Rylen agreed.

In the face of Cullen’s anger Rylen remained calm. He opened a drawer of his desk and pulled a wine bottle out, setting it on his desk with an audible snap of glass against wood.

“This,” He continued as Cullen’s brow creased into a confused frown, thrown by the appearance of the wine. “Was nearly sent to your room last night. It’s poisoned.”

Cullen tensed.

“Explain.”

Rylen tightened his hold on the neck of the bottle, turning it so Cullen could see the wax seal over the cork had been marred by what was unmistakably a fingerprint in the wax.

“The woman who was supposed to deliver it picked it up just so—” He demonstrated, sliding his thumb over the top of the bottle so he was holding it loosely, “—and pressed her print into the seal. Reported it to Lieutenant Tamsen who brought the matter to me directly. There’s only one explanation for why there’d be fresh melted wax on the bottle.” 

_ To cover any needle puncture,  _ Cullen followed grimly. He’d heard stories from Leliana about what a talented poisoner could accomplish with the right tools. But something seemed off about it nonetheless. It took him a moment to realize and then he frowned, thinking of all the paperwork he’d done at Skyhold.

“No, that can’t be right. Wax sets too quickly. She’d had to have seen who touched it if that were true.”

Rylen looked almost pleased by Cullen’s fast conclusion. It did little to endear him to Cullen in the moment, however.

“There were three other soldiers busy in the stockroom at the time. Each of them said the same thing: that the four of them were the only ones down there and that none of them had been near the wine racks before then. I spent the night reviewing their careers, their histories. If I’m any judge of character, they’re not involved Cullen.”

“Then just what are you suggesting?”

“That there was someone who could pass unnoticed by trick or spell who was also there. Perhaps both.”

It hit Cullen suddenly, the way Rylen’s eyes had tightened as he looked down at Krem examining the map.

_ “The real task will be making sure they don’t flee the encounters.” _

_ “Scavengers and opportunists are tricky that way,” Krem agreed absently. _

_ “That they are.” _

Cullen stared at Rylen. He couldn’t stop the dismissive sound from spilling out his mouth.

“ _ Krem? _ ” He asked incredulously, “You can’t honestly think it’s him. We’ve been on the road for weeks. His men made up half my detail. He-”

“-shares a bed with you. I know.” Rylen interjected and Cullen’s next words died in his mouth. He wet his lips and swallowed while Rylen sent him a very unimpressed, flat look.

“I knew you’d hesitate to consider a lover as a threat, Cullen. And don’t lie to me now: he’s your lover. He’s allowed in your room at all hours. He brings you food. The very first time you introduced us you defended his merits to me  _ twice _ in less than a minute. Perhaps not everyone will draw the conclusion, but those who watch will. Don’t tell me you intended to keep it a secret?”

Cullen’s leg felt weak and he carefully lowered himself into one of the chairs in front of Rylen’s desk. He had to fight the urge to avoid Rylen’s eye, feeling like a soldier brought before his superior for a dressing down rather than the other way around. The feeling all too keenly reminded him of watching the way Meredith had brought the wrath of the Maker down on the Templars she’d found in the Blooming Rose. But he wasn’t the one who should be defending himself. Not to Rylen, not about this. Especially when the accusation lay somewhere between his choice of bedmates and his putting himself in the way of some perceived harm.

“He shared my bed last night. If he’d wanted me dead, I’d be dead.” Cullen answered, chin tilted up and gaze steady.

Rylen’s face was like stone but he held up a hand to assuage Cullen.

“I’m not saying the lieutenant will put a blade in you.”

“Then just what  _ are _ you trying to say?” Cullen demanded tightly. 

“Five days ago you arrived injured. But getting to the heart of  _ how _ you got injured lead me to conflicting and troubling reports. Corporal Fionn claimed responsibility for your injury because one of his archers struck you. However, he  _ also _ stated that you were shielded at the time by one of the lieutenant’s mages. It seemed simple enough to inquire about, but imagine my surprise when I spoke to your lieutenant the next day after breakfast and he claimed that he  _ had _ no mages among his men.”

Cullen knew all too well the look that Krem would have worn while delivering that line. Expression perfectly blank and guileless. His tone lilting just enough to suggest a lack on the part of the questioner. He could all but hear Krem claim  _ we don’t have mages; Dalish is an archer  _ with a straight face. Krem had to have known that Rylen had heard otherwise. Which meant that he had told Rylen a bold-faced lie to his face just to rile him. _ Damn it, Krem. _

But closing ranks around the Chargers when an antagonistic Templar asked after their apostate must be second nature to Krem by now as well.

"Krem wasn't truly trying to keep it from you. Everyone who has ever hired or worked with them is aware that the Chargers have apostates. They don't admit it officially, but the Inquisition is more than aware."

Rylen wasn’t quite finished. 

"That may be so, but it made me think about how convenient it was that the barrier went down when it did."

“That… was not her fault.” Cullen admitted, releasing a long breath. And then he did avoid Rylen’s eye, staring down at his hands instead. 

He heard Rylen walk around his desk and take a seat opposite him. 

“Cullen, the effect had to be dispelled by her. Unless she was so incompetent that the spell failed because her lack of training. As you said, the mercenaries make up half your detail. You’re surrounded by them and wouldn’t it be easy if something…  _ happened  _ to you on the road?”

_ No _ , Cullen wanted to say.  _ I purged the spell. It never really settled on me in the first place. _ But the words caught in his throat. It was one thing to admit it to Krem, who had shared worse with him. Who already knew about Kinloch Hold. Who didn’t know with a soul-deep understanding how vital consistency and self-control were to everything that Templars were supposed to be.  _ Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter. _

But he was. Faltering before his duty to be utterly in command of his abilities  _ and _ faltering in his commitment to being in control of himself enough to admit it. 

And in the past he had not always been believed. Meredith and her ranking officers had been made aware of his inability to control his magic purging abilities when he had been transferred to Kirkwall all those years ago. While Meredith had believed him—all but watched him with a hungry, jealous fixation when she had spoken of it with him—many of the others hadn’t. The effect was focused on him and his immediate area instead of the noticeably larger reach of a true cleansing purge and its existence was difficult to prove without being cast on directly, which few Templars would dream to suggest, let alone with how crazed Cullen had been in the years after surviving Kinloch Hold.

He could imagine those expressions of polite disinterest and disbelief written onto Rylen’s face instead. Or, worse, the belief that he had been the cause of dropping the shield but that he’d done so  _ on purpose. _

Cullen sighed.

"You'll have to take my word for it, Rylen. She didn't bring the barrier down. I've been... having problems with my abilities of late." 

A truth and a lie. He had been having trouble since he stopped taking lyrium, but the heart of this problem lay too long ago to be called recent with any sort of honesty. The misdirection was probably evident in his voice. Rylen's eyebrows were drawn together and he seemed to be thinking heavily on Cullen's words.

Cullen pressed a hand over his eyes and focused on his breathing. Maker, he didn’t know what Rylen made of him in this moment. He didn’t know what he made of himself.

“What point are you trying to make?” He asked, suddenly tired.

“The Keep has seen its share of troubles since our arrival but it hasn’t seen signs of infiltration or sabotage until yours.” Rylen answered bluntly, unabashed even when Cullen’s eyes rose to meet his. “And the arguably  _ second _ attempt on your life only occurred after you made your first public appearance following your injury. Cullen, we need to consider that someone you traveled with poisoned the wine. Someone who either didn’t know how well you were mending but felt it worth the risk once you appeared in public or who only got the order to act against you once you were back on your feet. The Chargers certainly appear to have the skills for such a thing.”

“As opposed to someone who had been lying low among your men with the same motives.” Cullen countered. “You have mages in the Keep.”

“Yes, a few. It’s possible, technically. But they were either on patrol or accounted for and their loyalty to the Inquisition is unquestionable.” Rylen took a deep breath, ignoring Cullen’s scoff. “Cullen, half the men you traveled with serve that lieutenant of yours. If the infiltrator is among my men then perhaps they already know what we know of the area,” Rylen paused and met Cullen’s gaze. 

“But if it's one of your Chargers then I’m not going to place the safety of our supply lines and men in the hands of mercenaries just because their leader is warming your bed. Any one of them could lay hands on the map.”

Cullen opened his mouth to speak but Rylen overrode him, determined to finish his point before Cullen could deny him. 

“It’s a simple test. If the Venatori attack the false camp locations, we’ll know someone among the Chargers is a mole. If not, nothing I changed on the map will adversely affect the mission or their safety... _ if _ that’s the only mission they’re fulfilling.”

It would be so easy for Cullen to continue to be furious at Rylen for hiding this decision from him. Easier still to call insubordination. But they were allies and equals before they were under one another's command. They were friends after Rylen pulled through for him again and again, put his life on the line not only for Cullen but for the people they worked so feverishly to save in Kirkwall. If he had found out the night previous that Rylen’s life had been endangered, would he not have acted immediately and trusted his own judgement of the situation?

“Cullen,” Rylen tried again after Cullen failed to respond, too deep in his thoughts. “The measure only holds so long as you don’t tell him. I can’t prevent you from revealing the misdirection, but I’m asking you to stand with me on this.”

And there it was.

Cullen didn’t believe that any of the Chargers were involved with the poisoning. He’d drunk at their table, slept in their midst, and befriended their leaders. None of them would have done it. But Rylen’s earlier accusation hung in the air— _ I knew you’d hesitate to consider a lover as a threat, Cullen _ —and Rylen had asked for his trust. Rylen’s trust pitted against Krem’s.

It was more painful than Cullen realized to have his command come into odds with his relationship. 

_ Maker, this is what the Templars tried to circumvent with orders to avoid fraternization, _ he reflected. 

He’d always thought that the edict was about being able to order someone you loved to seek their death for the greater good. Cullen couldn’t imagine how unpleasant, how wretched it would be to order Krem to a hopeless, pitched fight. But they both understood the risks of the battlefield. Could not and would not guarantee each other’s safety. 

Rylen was looking at him with just the right mix of concern and trust that he nearly agreed with him out of hand; he _was_ compromised in this. Then he swallowed the sentiment with a sudden bitterness. Meredith had looked at him like that, needing to hear that he understood that stricter measures and suspicion _were_ _necessary_ to save lives. 

It was a trap that many Templars had fallen into—Cullen included. And it had taken many years before he was willing to see that the fears and abuses of the mages under his charge were as real as important as his own. But once the realization had hit him, he couldn’t shake it, even through the worst of his misgivings. He didn’t want to fall back into that old way of thinking.

“I will think on it.” Cullen deflected, the thought of lying to Krem feeling more rotten the more he turned it over in his mind. It was not the answer Rylen was looking for and Cullen could feel his displeasure as Rylen folded his arms and let out a long, slow, controlled breath.

“And you?” Cullen pressed suddenly. “What of the mages in your Keep, the ones whose loyalty cannot be questioned when my—my lieutenant’s and his men’s can?”

“They’ll be watched. But none are of any significant rank, none with access to any vital information.”

_ Unlike Krem and the maps of the area _ , Cullen heard.

They lapsed back into a tense silence.

No further critique came. Clearly, Rylen was unwilling to push the matter further if that’s what Cullen wanted. Cullen could pick up his crutch and leave if he wished. It was a tempting thought.

But for good or ill they hadn’t gotten to this point in their friendship with the specter of Cullen’s authority allowing Cullen to act beyond reproach.

“You look like you have more to say.” Cullen remarked, taking up a similar pose to Rylen’s as he leaned back in his chair.

“Are you sure you can handle more to think about?”

Cullen’s mouth formed a thin, tense line.

“Cut to the chase, Rylen. I’ll hear you out.”

“Fine.” Rylen leaned forward. “Let’s talk about your lieutenant.”

“I was wondering when you’d explain just what you have against him. He’s a good man.” Cullen said tightly. “You’ve asked me to trust your judgement. Maker, I wish you’d trust  _ mine _ .”

Though Cullen wouldn’t be able to point out exactly what it was, something in Rylen’s face softened. He uncrossed his arms and let his hands settle on his knees.

“I trust you, Cullen. If that was unclear then I apologize. But I won’t hide my thoughts with niceties. In Kirkwall you told me that you joined the Templars early—”

“Not precisely. I was in training from thirteen, but I joined at eighteen like everyone else.”

Rylen frowned at the interruption.

“You’ve never truly known a life outside the Templars, Cullen. Not until now. And before you say the same of me, I’ve got at least ten years on you and I only decided to join at fifteen. I’ve kept in touch with many brothers and sisters who have left the order from marriage to disgrace to simply succumbing to the effects of lyrium. I’ve seen them struggle to seek purpose when their life’s path is closed. It’s never simple. I was prepared for what it meant to follow you and the Inquisition when Lord Seeker Lucius called us elsewhere and we had to choose. The work was more important than the need to bend to one man’s pride. But I don’t think you truly knew what it would be like.”

Cullen’s fingers tightened against his arms.

“I’m no child when it comes to the world, Rylen. I knew the choice I was making.”

“Did you? I’m trying to tell you what I’ve seen my brothers and sisters undergo. Men and women of all ranks who have come from very different places before they served. Or are you saying that you are beyond them all? Unaffected by leaving Templar life in a way they were not?” Rylen’s voice dipped low, clipped. 

“You know I’m not.” Cullen bit out. “But do not belittle my decision. I would make it again.”

Rylen held his gaze, searching for something.

“And the decision to stop taking lyrium?” He asked after a moment. His voice had evened out, though it was still tight as he continued. “I’ve heard that Seeker Petaghast has publicly supported it. Was it a choice or an order?”

“Maker, Rylen.” Cullen breathed heavily, running a hand over his neck. “I am doing what I must. The Inquisitor herself told me that the decision was mine alone to make and... it’s what I want.”

“No more leash.” Rylen agreed quietly. 

Cullen closed his eyes.

Truthfully it had been one of the worst decisions he’d ever had to make in his life. A decision so simple in thought. It should have been easy to put aside, but it wasn’t. When he undressed for bed his hands shook and his body never seemed to settle to sleep easily, something missing from his routine. He found himself wracked by nervous, aimless frustration at the worst moments. Everything,  _ everything _ , ached. 

Rylen’s hand closed around Cullen’s knee and squeezed lightly. A rare physical gesture of support from a man who Cullen knew to hold himself back from touch when he could. 

Cullen held his breath and then released it slowly, opening his eyes to meet Rylen’s gaze. He nodded curtly, an acknowledgement of Rylen’s sympathy as much as a statement that he was collected once more, and Rylen withdrew his hand.

“Cullen, you aren’t alone in this. But I fear you are choosing the wrong anchor for yourself. A lover cannot replace the unbreakable faith of brotherhood. He can’t fill the craving left by the lyrium.”

Cullen scoffed quietly. “So you’re quick to find fault in him for my own good? Because I might be too fond of him?  I'm not trying to make him the new center of my life. But I won't deny I care for him. That he's important to me. ”

“He’s a liar, Cullen. Even if it's about blatant facts, he's quick to obscure the truth without even a trace of guilt. Or do you honestly think he's almost your age? And he’s a Tevinter mercenary who’s found his way into the bed of one of the most important people in the Inquisition while our Commander is at his most vulnerable. I _am_ concerned. We should all be concerned. You haven’t had the experience to know when someone close to you is working against you. It’s not a matter of trust as much as it is a matter of looking at the situation practically and making plans for if it all goes wrong.”

In his head, Cullen cursed Krem’s glib, irreverent tone. And there was no way to explain why Krem appearance was that of a younger man without giving away what Krem worked so hard to keep private.

“I can’t decide if you’re trying to tell me that he’s going to knife me in my sleep, extort all of the Inquisition’s secrets from me, or just cut to the chase and reveal himself to be a blood mage and bring the Keep down around us.” Cullen protested, “Let it lie, Rylen. I hear you. But he is not the man you think he is. Do not speak to him as though he is.  I understand that everything may look ill to you — Maker, maybe I'd think the same if you were in my place — but it isn't. I trust Krem and his men.”

Cullen resolved his mind. If the map would put Rylen’s mind at ease—about Krem’s trustworthiness  _ and  _ his own, Maker then let it be over with.

“I’ll stand with you on the matter of the map but from here on don’t make decisions without me on this. That’s an order both as your superior officer and a request as your friend. We’ll look into the matter of the wine, but we will not be doing it with a suspect already in mind.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment. Then Rylen sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“As you say, Cullen. We’ll start on the matter afresh.”

* * *

Cullen needed time to collect his thoughts after leaving Rylen’s office. He made his way out to the upper courtyard, hoping to find a spot along the walls to think. But to his chagrin, many of the Keep’s battlements were separated from the mid courtyard by rough wooden ladders and the few places along the upper courtyard where he could look out over the desert and shrubland were hardly out of the way of the bustle of activity. 

He leaned heavily on his crutch and peered through the mass of soldiers at work, at a loss.

“Commander!” 

Cullen turned his head and spotted Corporal Fionn making his way toward him through the crowd. 

“Corporal,” He said, eyeing the sheen of sweat on Fionn’s brow. Fereldens weren’t meant for this kind of heat even with the altered uniform that Rylen’s men wore. “Do you need to sit?”

Fionn shook his head, a little bit taken back and perhaps embarrassed by the suggestion. He made a bit of an effort to straighten up and square his shoulders.

“I’m fine, Commander. I just wanted to ask how you were doing, ser.”

“I’m on my feet.” Cullen said wryly. “How are the soldiers doing? Rylen tells me that our injured are recovering well.”

“They are. Wilhelm was able to go on light duty the next day and is more or less to rights now. It was mostly just shock and bruises, ser. Sylvia is having some trouble walking but the healers say she’ll pull right.” Fionn reported.

He matched the pleased smile that spread across Cullen’s face at the news. True, it wasn’t anything that Cullen didn’t already know, but it was good to confirm with someone who had also traveled with their small band. Who would be able to pass on that the Commander asked after them. Cullen had learned to not underestimate how small things like that could boost morale.

“And the rest of our company?” Cullen inquired. 

Fionn tugged at the scarf around his neck.

“We’re settling in, ser.” 

Cullen’s eyes followed the motion and he raised an eyebrow slowly.

“Problems, Fionn?” 

“Not as much, ser… it’s just this blig—this heat has got some of the men on edge. At least there was some wind on the road, but the air’s so still in the Keep…” He looked a little ashamed for having brought up such a trivial matter to the commander of all people.

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I’ll see if it’s practical for them to spend some time on the walls off duty. Was there anything else?”

“No, ser.”

Well, if ever there were a reservation hanging in the air unsaid there would be one in the pause before that statement.

Cullen looked about, still finding nowhere they could readily linger without being in the way of the Keep’s well-polished routine. 

“Do you have a few minutes, Fionn?” He asked, coming to a decision.

“Yes, ser.”

“Walk with me, then.” 

It was half a suggestion. Cullen suspected that even if the man had duties he’d hesitate before refusing, but he wanted to give him a chance to refuse.

He didn’t, though, and easily kept pace with Cullen who felt frustratingly slow as they made their way back inside the thankfully cooler Keep towards his room. Fionn hovered at his side, keeping his eyes mostly forward, but Cullen caught him glancing his way every so often as though he were expecting Cullen to take a tumble.

“How have you been integrating into the Keep’s forces?” Cullen asked.

“Well enough, ser.”

Maker, when had Fionn turned into a skittish nug?

Cullen leaned heavily on his crutches and came to a stop.

“About what happened out in the Approach…” Cullen began.

“I accept full responsibility, Commander.” Fionn leapt in hastily and Cullen fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“No, that’s not—accidents happen. I would like to think that after weeks on the road together we’re not going to suddenly go back to ranks and empty formality.” Cullen caught his eye. “Not that it’s my favorite experience to be shot, but it does happen.” 

Fionn seemed hesitant to accept that, his shoulders tight and hunched. Cullen sighed. This wasn’t his favorite story to be passed around, but…

“The Inquisitor knocked me down a flight of stairs in Skyhold.” 

Fionn blinked.

“Ser…?”

Cullen sighed again, deeper. He supposed this was going to be the start of rumors that would circle back to him some weeks from now. He’d have preferred not to have this indignity passed around, but if he could trim some of the more embarrassing details...

“The Inquisitor came around the corner abruptly as I was almost at the landing and knocked me clear down the stairs. A set of stone steps.” He repeated wryly. “If you’re having trouble with what happened… remember that the Herald still has to look me in the eye and we have no issue working together. It’s not an arrow, true, but I was limping after that one too.”

In full truth, the Inquisitor had been chasing after Sera—who had managed to avoid Cullen deftly—but the Inquisitor had not been so lucky. Fortunately, Sera had grabbed him after he’d hit a few steps and he was spared any real injury. Unfortunately, even being there to witness the accident didn’t stop Sera from making jokes about his limp. Maker’s breath, his ears still burned.

Fionn’s face went in two different directions, mouth twitching up and even as he tried to purse his lips to keep from smiling. His eyebrows bobbed up and down, concern warring with amusement.

Cullen made an absent, dismissive gesture with his hand before curling his fingers around the grip of his crutch and moving forward again, forcing Fionn to move to keep up with him.

“So, how have you truly been? What are you assigned to do next?” Cullen asked after letting Fionn digest that for a moment.

“Good, ser.” 

Ah, good. The nervous, at-attention edge of Fionn’s voice had been blunted. Either he was still thrown by the strange story or he had decided to try move past self-recriminations.

Cullen hummed in vague agreement and Fionn was quick to volunteer more.

“I’m to take over some of the routine patrols soon, after going with some of the other groups. And to take part in cleaning out the well.”

“The one in the courtyard? The one with the corpses?” Cullen asked distastefully.

“The very one, ser.”

Cullen didn’t envy him. Even if it was cooler out of the sun, bodies that had festered in putrid water in any kind of heat were liable to make anyone gag just thinking about them. To lay hands on the bloated, burst remains, if there even were any… cohesive remains did not bear further thought.

“My apologies, then.” Cullen winced. “You’ve better prospects to look forward to too, I hope?”

Fionn was quick to agree to as much. Apparently it turned out he had a cousin or somesuch in the Keep that he had run into unexpectedly and had planned to spend time with in the upcoming weeks. Cullen wished him the best. Cullen’s own family had never exactly stayed in touch. Or,well,  _ he _ had never quite been so good at that.

Speaking of which… Maker, he probably had another letter he ought to write to Mia, didn’t he? 

What would he even say? Well, he was sure he could be excused for letting the matter rest until he had something of note to write her. Perhaps before Adamant. 

He let Fionn’s chatter wash over him, the Corporal slowly slipping away from serious subjects to discuss some of the gossip he’d picked up around the Keep. Apparently some soldiers half-believed that Rylen was too calm to be anything but Tranquil. A foolish idea, Rylen was often light hearted, if generally even voiced, but Cullen supposed that it was hard to get a sense of the man without spending any significant time with him. And Rylen was nothing short of professional with his men.

By the time they reached Cullen’s room and Fionn insisted he had nothing more to speak of, Cullen believed him and let him slip away to his tasks.

It wasn’t as good as walking the battlements to clear his head, but Cullen felt more grounded. Calmer. Ready, at least, for what he was going to say to Krem when his lover inevitably approached him before his departure tomorrow morning.

* * *

Cullen should have remembered that no plan survives contact with the enemy. Not that Krem was the enemy—no matter what Rylen had said, Cullen absolutely refused to entertain the idea that Krem was involved with the poisoning or any other unsavory attempt to undermine the Inquisition—but there was a certain hostility in the set of Krem’s shoulders when he leaned back against Cullen’s dresser that afternoon, arms folded, and demanded:

“‘We’ll talk about it later’? What kind of shitty explanation is that?”

Cullen tried not to frown. Leliana had been trying to talk to him about his tells before he left Skyhold. Something about how she heard how thoroughly Josephine and the rest of the Inquisitor’s companions had wrecked him at Wicked Grace and found it to be a both hilarious and disappointing display from a man the Inquisition needed to protect its interests. He didn’t see the point in guarding himself in general, but now that he was actively trying to keep something from Krem... Maker, what was he getting himself into? He didn’t even  _ want _ to lie to Krem. Was trying not to, sort of, by promising him an answer. Just… later. He meant it to clear his name, after all.

“I… it’s an explanation.” Cullen argued weakly, rubbing his neck. Then he winced. He wasn’t supposed to do either of those things. He sighed and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. “I just need you to trust me.”

Krem’s mouth twisted downward.

“When people say that, that’s when you know you need to get a straight answer.” Krem pointed out. “It just means there’s something bad that you really ought to know.”

Every line of Krem’s body was tense. Cullen had seen him on guard, battle-ready as they passed through dangerous territory on their way to the Keep. He wore the same sort of wariness in the set of his mouth. His hands stayed loose but there was a dangerous sort of stillness to them. A restlessness masked by deliberate calm.

A rush of guilt hit Cullen. He didn’t want Krem to watch him that way.

“It’s complicated.” He tried.

“Make it simple for me, then.” Krem’s voice was flat. “Cullen, I’m not an idiot. Something is up. Something about this mission and this map and whatever the fuck the Knight-Captain has against me. What are the Chargers walking into here? What am  _ I _ walking into? Give me a straight answer or tell me why you can’t tell me, but don’t dodge the question. I’m not going to smile and wait to get fucked over.”

This, Cullen thought, was exactly where he didn’t want to be. His own conviction that Krem was innocent made it hard for him to build one lie on top of each other about what was going on, especially since Krem was no fool. 

But even telling Krem why he couldn’t tell him would undermine the point of it entirely. Rylen needed to have Krem’s non-involvement proven on his terms. Because while he avoided saying as much directly to Cullen, it was clear that he thought Cullen’s judgement was severely compromised. And, unfortunately, Rylen seemed as good at reading Cullen as Krem was. If he told Krem about the map before the mission he was sure that Rylen would know the instant he saw him and would have actual proof that Cullen was compromised. Maker, Leliana was right. Cullen had to work on his tells. 

But if Cullen could bow to Rylen’s request to preserve Inquisition secrets and test to see if the false information leaked—a request Cullen himself would think reasonable if anyone but him and Krem were also involved—then Rylen could at least trust that Cullen was willing to keep his eyes open to unsavory possibilities. 

There was more reason he’d agreed than that, too, of course. 

Cullen wanted Krem’s name to be cleared. But throwing the weight of his authority behind his words and demanding the issue be closed would just be further evidence for his being compromised, unwilling to face potentially deadly threats.

He also didn’t want this hostility to simmer on and breed new rumors about Krem and the Chargers as time went on. If a simple mission with a misleading but ultimately harmless map was the price of clearing Krem’s involvement with Rylen then he would pay it and pay gladly. 

Especially, he thought suddenly, if he didn’t survive the assault on Adamant and Rylen took command of the Inquisition’s forces. He would not have this hanging over Krem’s head. Would not have Krem be the first name uttered when inevitable future sabotage among the ranks emerged.

Rylen had already conceded to drop the matter of Krem being behind the poisoning so long as Cullen entertained the charade about the map. There was no way for Krem to incriminate himself because he truly was innocent and Cullen hoped that when that became clear to Rylen that he’d have a staunch ally in defending Krem from any future accusations. An ally that couldn’t be painted as compromised and who was widely respected in the Inquisition and without.

“If I tell you—,” Cullen explained slowly, picking his words carefully, before realizing he needed to start over. He sighed. This would be easier if Krem had accepted his first attempts to delay this conversation until  _ after _ there was no more need for secrecy. “I can’t tell you that nothing is happening. The Knight-Captain has made an initiative that I don’t agree with to settle some doubts and we’ve been...curt with each other on the issue. However, there _ is _ a problem with the varghest and you are the very real solution to it. I volunteered you for the task  _ because _ you are the best fit for it, before any of this… occurred. I know you want more. But it’s all I can give you.” 

“Doubts?” Krem echoed before prodding further. “...about me?”

Cullen made a frustrated noise. 

“Krem, please. I promise you nothing will come of it. Please trust me.”

Krem looked like he was about to press further. He opened his mouth and then thought better of it before unfolding his arms and frowning at something on the far side of the room.

“In the interest of trusting you, I won’t ask more.  _ But, _ ” Krem said after a moment, hanging onto the word with an almost unforgiving emphasis. “If there’s anything I could do to fully embrace that trust, I  _ trust _ you would tell me in return.”

Cullen hesitated.

Then:

“Take all your men with you.” He advised quietly.


	4. Unwelcome Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating. Like many of us right now, I lost my job during this crisis and I've been aggressively interviewing at other companies.

The Chargers left in the predawn of the next day. Cullen met them at the gates to see them off, ostensibly to pass on the latest reports on varghest activity. Which he had. He might have intentionally intercepted Lieutenant Tamsen, who looked a little taken aback when the Commander offered to carry the message since he was ‘taking a look at the lower courtyard anyway’ but conceded, to get his hands on them. But he certainly had them. 

As he made his way down the steps he spotted Krem by the gate surrounded by the rest of the Chargers. 

He lingered a moment before drawing closer and watched the way Krem walked among them, touching a shoulder here, checking to see if bags were secure and everyone was accounted for. His motions had a certain ease of familiarity to them; he seemed to know before looking where everything would be. They were by far the liveliest soldiers in the courtyard that morning. The few others present were focused on clearing debris away to make a space for merchants and suppliers to set up trade once the Inquisition secured the trade routes.

“Stitches, how much antivenom did you get?” Krem inquired after he’d knocked shoulders with Dalish almost playfully. 

“Enough. Though I had to fight one of the healers for a few extra vials.” Stitches shrugged. “Things are pretty ill supplied here, but you’d still think that they’d willingly give the antidote to the people, you know, actually heading out to  _ fight  _ the varghest instead of hoarding them for the ones in the Keep just in case.”

“Split up the vials among several of the packs. Don’t want them all getting broken due to some accident. And cut your moaning, we’re–” Krem glanced around warily before his eyes fell on Cullen. 

“Commander.” He greeted, taking a few steps towards him. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Cullen closed the rest of the distance, holding out the papers. Their hands brushed as Krem took them and began to leaf through them to get a sense of what they contained. A little bit of the tension in Cullen’s shoulders eased. They… hadn’t parted in good company the night before.

“The latest reports on varghest sightings.” Cullen explained.

“Since yesterday?” Krem raised an eyebrow, folding the papers and tucking them under an arm.

Cullen gave him a weary smile. “Some of our men disturbed a few nests in the ravines southwest of where we passed through on our way to the Keep. No varghest were there at the time, but they might return. Could be a good place to start.”

“Is that an unofficial instruction to head south?” Krem asked. His mouth barely moved and it took Cullen a moment to realize that he’d spoken. 

“Not as such,” Cullen murmured. “Though if you do, you ought to know that there’s a number of ruins with bandits we’ve been unable to flush out in that direction. We’ve a camp a few hours south of the Keep by the ridge but after that... well, use caution. We’re also not entirely sure that there aren’t more Venatori operating in the area, but if so they aren’t your mission.”

Krem hummed thoughtfully. “And say we find the varghest and clean them out in short order… should I keep the Chargers out in the field until at least a week’s passed?” 

“No, you’re not– you’re not being exiled.”

“Just being kept out of the way because your  _ friend _ has some kind of problem with where I’m from.” 

There was an undeniable bitterness in his voice. He’d told Cullen once that you never truly know what it meant to love a place as much as you loathed it until you knew that you could never go back. That over the years the place you called home would change in so many ways that you wouldn’t recognize it even if you could see it again. That everywhere you went you’d be an outlet for the fears and hatred the rest of Thedas held against Tevinter, held accountable for the same crimes that were committed against you.

Krem didn’t know about the attempt on his life, aided by magic or some trickery they had yet to discover. Couldn’t know how it made the trouble with Dalish’ barrier or Krem’s casual deception about the apostates in the Chargers look in retrospect. Didn’t hear Cullen’s defense of him. All he knew was that Rylen had baited him and doubted him. And despite Cullen’s reassurances, Krem was undeniably being sent away with Cullen’s agreement as a result of those unspoken suspicions.

He suddenly saw his compliance with Rylen through Krem’s eyes and shame struck him.

Cullen let out a slow breath and glanced at the other soldiers in the courtyard as they worked. None seemed to be close enough to eavesdrop, not with the soft tones they’d been conversing in. 

Krem leaned forward, careful to keep a respectful distance between them. But his eyes met Cullen’s and he looked wary but keen to hear the words that were almost on the tip of Cullen’s tongue. Rylen couldn’t hear what was spoken between them now. He burned to say them.

“There was an attempt on my life the night before last.” He whispered heavily. He could feel himself trading Rylen’s trust for Krem’s even though he’d only sworn to withhold the truth about the map and the test of trust that it was. He tried to ignore the way his stomach churned with the admission regardless of the way he’d tried to frame it to himself. “It’s inevitable that there’ll be another attempt. When it comes… I don’t want you to be here. Do you understand?”

Krem’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing.

“I didn’t hear anything that night. How–?”

“Poisoning.” Cullen’s eyes flicked to the soldiers again and Krem made an effort to lean back casually, checking the fit of his gauntlet. 

“I can’t say more,” Cullen cautioned. Couldn’t help the small pleading tone that slipped into his voice. “I shouldn’t have said as much. After you return, I’ll–”

“Why didn’t you tell me last night?” Krem interrupted.

Cullen shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily.

Krem followed the motion with a pinched look as he came to a realization. 

“I’m a  _ suspect  _ for  _ that? _ ” He whispered hoarsely. “And you thought–?”

_ “No.” _ Cullen interjected forcefully. He saw some of the Chargers and nearby soldiers look his way and realized he hadn’t been quiet. It was just enough to still his tongue.

Krem seized the moment to whisper: “Then why keep it a secret?”

Cullen ran his palm over the side of his neck and gave the soldiers a pointed look until they turned away. Undoubtedly, though, they were now interested in whatever had prompted their Commander to raise his voice. Cullen put his hand on Krem’s elbow and drew him further away.

Cullen dropped his voice so low that he barely heard the words that came out of his own mouth.

“I’m sorry,” He said in a quiet voice, knowing just how far the words fell short. He shifted closer to Krem, wanting to reach out to him. “I– you’re not being accused of poisoning me. Yes, it was suggested that one of the Chargers... but I swear it was laid to rest. There were… precautions I agreed to. Not just for you. For me as well, I–The more I defend you the more he is convinced there is something to be found, that I’m....”

Cullen struggled to find the right word. ‘Compromised’ sounded horrible, if true. ‘Vulnerable’ was no better. Nor was ‘suggestible’. It still made him uncomfortable to think about Rylen’s concern that Cullen had chosen Krem as a cause to fill the void his life with the Templars had left. He grasped for a moment longer before giving up.

“There’s more to it, but I don’t want you to have to lie about what you know. You aren’t being sent away because of this.”

Krem breathed heavily, his face drawn tight with fury. 

“I’d rather lie than wonder what the fuck I’m being grabbed for when your  _ friend _ acts on the decision that I’m guilty and you throw up your hands and say it’s just another  _ initiative _ you don’t agree with but won’t stop. You have some balls asking me to trust you when you know I’m being accused— _ despite what you say _ —of attempted murder and treason and Maker knows what else and won’t even tell me.” 

“Nevermind that you’ve agreed to some mysterious fucking ‘precautions’ and the goddamn map which clearly involve me but you haven’t told me about either.  _ Precautions set by a man you outrank, no less _ .” 

Krem paused, then continued in a lower, harsher voice, the words rushing out of him before Cullen could protest: “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have told me this to begin with. If this was a test for him, not you, then what do you gain by keeping me in the dark? Either you think I am trustworthy or you think I’m not. I shouldn’t need to jump through hoops to keep proving it again and again for every asshole who takes issue with me for being Tevinter. Least of all on  _ your _ call. Fuck you for making me.”

Cullen swallowed hard.

“Krem…” 

Krem met his gaze squarely, eyes narrowed, challenging Cullen to deny it. 

Cullen struggled to find better words to explain himself. Somehow his reasons seemed thin and disordered when he tried to lay them out for Krem. They got jumbled, came out in half-formed ways that fell flat to his own ears. Still, he had to try.

“I wanted there to be no doubt you were innocent. No accusations that you knew in advance or let anything slip to the men. If I brushed his concerns aside… the doubts would always be there. From any other soldier? Their complaint would be noted and disregarded. I swear it. But he’s my second. Even though I outrank him now, if I were impaired in any way, he’d be the new Commander. I didn’t want– I wasn’t sure how else to… what should I have done?”

Krem gave him a flat, unsympathetic look. Beyond the flash of hurt in his eyes his expression was unreadable to Cullen and when he spoke, it was without any of the fondness or understanding Cullen was used to hearing.

“What should you have– Cullen, you’re the  _ Commander,  _ you literally call all of the shots.” Krem bit out. “But you could have started by not lying to me.”

Cullen rubbed his neck and nodded in unhappy agreement. He wanted to say that he didn’t want to… but he’d done it anyway, despite his reasons. He had no defense for that.

Krem narrowed his eyes, continuing when Cullen didn’t deny it.

“You’d have had my eyes on the situation. Me at your back. You’d have let me know that I should be watching my back in this shithole too. That your asshole second wasn’t just giving me a rough time because he has a stick up his ass but that he’d actually marked me as some easy target for his fucking problems.That I should be checking my boys’ supplies over for any other sabotage. Instead, I’m going to be crawling around in the desert getting sand up my ass hunting a bunch of lizards that will be hunting me right back, guided by some suspicious-as-fuck map while  _ you _ limp around with no one watching your back except the guy who is looking at all the wrong targets. Kaffas! You fucked up, Cullen.”

That wasn’t quite right, Cullen thought defensively. Krem had been told he had a mission before this mess had erupted and wouldn’t have been able to stay unless Cullen canceled the mission after the supplies had already been put aside and the maps drawn and the deal with Rylen struck. But the rest rang true to him and the clench of guilt came back full force.

“I’ll solve this.” Cullen promised.

“Good.” Krem declared. His face was drawn stiff with anger, frustration quickly masking the hurt. 

“Have fun chasing shadows. Try not to die because you’re a fucking idiot.” Krem grabbed the reports from under his arm and turned on his heel as Cullen watched, stricken. “That’s all, Commander. The Chargers are heading out.”

* * *

Since the Chargers left Cullen had been struck with an unrelenting restlessness, everything unsaid twisting in his gut like a knife and Krem’s words ringing in his head, more damning with each repetition. It was worse that he found himself agreeing with them. Yet for all of that he still wasn’t sure that working with Rylen’s test was the worst decision for Krem, even if it hurt him now. It was unworthy of him to cling to that, but he couldn’t stop the justification from whispering in his head. 

Maker, he needed to clear his head. Do… something. For once he was grateful for the ache in his thigh. It kept him focused, helped his thoughts from spiraling too uncontrollably. 

Cullen didn't take inaction well. He seized on the mystery of the poisoner with a fervor. This he could potentially solve. As far as he was concerned the poisoner had made the first move in a game that would be swiftly resolved. It had to be, because that one incident was already sending rippling effects through the Keep. Rylen's eye was now on Krem and instead of the Charger's mission being about clearing the area it had transformed into an effective exile and test of trust. It couldn't be allowed to continue.

Except what he knew of the situation could scarcely fill a thimble. Rylen's theories sounded more substantial but were barely more founded than whatever thoughts flew to Cullen's mind. He needed something more than a poisoned bottle. An allegiance, for one, would be informative. It was unfortunate that he could list many enemies that would benefit from his death.

The Venatori were the most obvious and had operatives in the area. The Inquisition's knowledge of their stronghold and its numbers and capabilities were guesswork at best. It was conceivable that they had either sent an agent or encouraged one already present in the Keep to take action.

But others could have had a hand in this as well. The War of the Lions was already being affected by the actions of the Inquisition even before the Inquisitor had turned her influence on the Exalted Plains. Josephine had cautioned that there would be many nobles beside Celene and Gaspard that would be pleased by the Inquisition's strength being diminished or their power called into doubt. As self-aggrandizing as it felt to think, both could be accomplished by Cullen's untimely death.

He also could not rule out a more personal motive. While he couldn't think of anyone he wronged at the Keep, it was still a possibility.

With nothing more than distracting possibilities, Cullen tapped his fingers against Rylen's desk and sent for Lieutenant Tamsen. He had been briefly introduced to her a few days after his arrival but hadn't spoken much more with her since making off with her report. Now that Rylen was inspecting the preparations around the Keep—with an apology to Cullen who could scarcely navigate the labyrinthian ladders and stairs that wound through the structure in his current state—and Cullen needed a sounding board, it seemed like an opportunity to properly acquaint himself with Rylen's right hand.

Not long after he heard a tap at the door and he turned over the papers he had been restlessly flicking through while he waited. He called for her to enter and she stepped inside. If the sand that clung to the folds of her uniform was any indicator, she had recently returned from the desert.

"Commander." She greeted, moving to stand in front of the desk.

"Tamsen," he gestured to the chair before Rylen's desk. In Skyhold he had received his reports standing, but it hardly seemed right to expect her to stand through what would likely be lengthy conversation. Especially since he had the luxury of being seated himself. "What is the situation with the darkspawn?"

She took a seat with visible relief, rubbing a gloved hand over her sunburnt face. Her nose was reddened and peeling ferociously from constant exposure to the harshness of the sun and Cullen was reminded of the itch of his own windscraped cheeks. Thank the Maker that the Inquisition wasn't headquartered out here. He'd take the unrelenting cold and frozen fingers of Skyhold and count himself lucky.

"Not very many of them out there, Ser, but we've been keeping close watch to the north over the last few days where the sulfur pits and fog cut us off from the rock face and walls. They're definitely coming from that direction. Only two or three at a time, but..."

But no one wanted to willingly face any amount of darkspawn. The Blight carried a terror that was well earned and especially here, along the great abyss carved by the second Blight and an arch-demon, even a small number was enough to breed unrest and fear.

"It's quite likely that once we build the bridge we will be faced with even greater numbers." He stated, sensing the conclusion of her thought. Even Blighted creatures would take the easiest path in their wanderings.

"Yes, Ser."

"Rylen has suggested that you be out in charge of supervising the construction efforts when the shipments come. Since you are familiar with the men stationed at the Keep, I'll allow you to put together your own team for the task so long as you don't diminish the number of guards at the oasis until the matter with the varghest is cleared."

Tamsen sat up a little straighter with a pleased "yes, ser" and Cullen briefly wondered if this was her first opportunity to assemble a squad. But he talked himself out of reconsidering the open order. In Skyhold he sometimes saw reports from the Keep written in her hand instead of Rylen's, something Rylen would never have allowed if he doubted her capabilities in the least. The thought brought a bitter taste to his mouth and he was reminded of his reason for calling her in the first place.

"We should expect confirmation from Val Firmin in the next day or so and the supplies shortly thereafter. I expect a list of the men you request by the end of tomorrow and no later." He cautioned before pausing to collect his thoughts. "There is one more matter I'd like to discuss, however. Rylen has given me his thoughts on the incident with the wine the other day, but I'd like to hear your account."

The excitement slipped off her face in favor of the controlled focus you'd see in an inspection line. 

"Yes, ser. It must have been not long after full dark." She began, "I was off duty, but I'm often called whenever there's a problem or the boys get to fussing, so I was on the lower courtyard when Clare came up out of the kitchens white as the moons."

Cullen held up his hand to stop her, curious.

"What sort of problem were you there for?"

"Superstitions, mostly." She said with an easy roll of her shoulder. "A lot of people are really on edge out here by the abyss. Makes them nervous. A couple of the men were talking about how that elvish device the Inquisitor activated moved or some nonsense. I was trying to settle them."

Cullen had heard of the artifacts before. Aside from their being scattered across Thedas and being useful in suppressing additional rifts, he saw nothing noteworthy about them. Not since the Inquisition's researchers could find no harm in them. But he could see how the soldiers could get unnerved by anything magical when they were already stationed in one of the most inhospitable places in Thedas and on the lip of an earth-rending wound from the second Blight. As long as they didn't begin to spread panic, he was not too concerned with interfering himself. Tamsen seemed more than capable in that regard.

"I see. Continue?"

"Yes, ser. So Clare comes out of the door and pulls me aside. Says nothing, holds up the bottle. It takes me a few minutes to get what's going on out of her because she's just showing me the bottle and not making much sense even when she does begin to speak. She’d kicked up a flurry of panic in the other room, kitchen workers who didn’t know what she was on about either—just getting the pieces she was telling me. Eventually she shows me the print on the wax and it hits me that this needs to go to the Knight-Captain. The storage cellars are pretty chilly even when it's not night. Shouldn't be any cause for the wax to melt without some sort of tampering. Could've happened before we got the bottle, on the trip through the desert or some such, but we inspect the bottles before bringing them down to the storeroom and she said she made the print. The Knight-Captain made her press a new print on paper with ink to compare the marks."

"Alright." He understood being unsettled by the incident but Clare's reaction seemed a bit... extreme. He said as much and Tamsen looked a bit rueful. 

"Policy is to rotate the soldiers who have been having trouble with the heat or nerves into kitchen shifts." She explained. "Clare has been taking the transition especially hard and has been a bit high strung of late, but she’s not the only one. Many men come out here and say they can feel the sky pressing on them. It's easier for them to stay inside with the coolness of the stone overhead and more familiar sights."

Cullen saw the sense in it, though it confirmed his belief that they had unintentionally done Corypheus a favor by taking the Keep. Maker, let  _ him  _ find his forces succumbing to delusion, heat, and terror.

On a more practical level, though, it meant that anyone who wanted to gain access to the Keep's food supply need not work hard to earn their place on a kitchen shift. 

"Do you know where Rylen keeps the duty rosters?" He asked.

"Bottom left drawer, Ser." She said dutifully, making a small gesture towards the correct cabinet. It was also one of the few locked drawers in the desk. He had a key, but he'd wait until Tamsen had gone to pour over the papers. It would take some time to figure out which soldiers had been put on kitchen shifts since it became public knowledge that Cullen would be coming to the Keep. While the poisoner could have been working in the kitchens prior to the announcement, it would be easier to start with new additions. 

His approach did assume that the poisoning was a planned attack rather than a convenient opportunity. However, unless he intended to wait for a second attempt to discover his unknown poisoner it seemed prudent to check. 

"Are there any other things of note about the incident?" He prompted. 

"No, ser. Not that the Knight-Captain didn't already hear. No one in the storeroom reported anything amiss or saw anyone approach the wine racks anytime close enough to have been responsible. Unfortunately the door was open to the lower courtyard while they were sorting millet—for air and ease of transfer to the kitchens—so..."

She trailed off again. A habit, then.

But Cullen followed her easily enough. It was growing painfully clear that either the poisoner knew the Keep and storerooms well enough to avoid notice by using the everyday flow of the soldiers and space to their advantage or the poisoner was aided by deft magics to mask them from sight. It struck Cullen suddenly why he and Rylen would wish for opposing answers. Rylen's hold on the Approach was constantly challenged from without. To acknowledge an instability within would be too much, especially when their foes used the very magics necessary to accomplish such an endeavor. Cullen, on the other hand, had seen more than his share of mundane betrayals since the Inquisition began. It seemed far more likely to him, even if his lover did not stand accused of some convoluted involvement.

Maker, Krem. He'd make sure any doubt about him died with this accusation.

Cullen wished he was on his feet. He thought better when he could pace.

“Actually there is one more thing, Lieutenant. Rylen said that after the incident, he was having the mages in the Keep kept under watch. Can you speak more to their numbers, positions, and situations? Have any of them been questioned about the incident?”

Rylen was used to leaning on his second in command, a feeling Cullen knew well, so if there was anything that Rylen had forgotten to mention it was likely that he’d be able to hear it from her.

“Not directly questioned, ser, though the Knight-Captain tasked me with setting several agents to track their whereabouts. If I may say so, though, Commander, word is that Grand Enchanter Fiona keeps her people close, so we only have a few mages at the Keep. And…” She hesitated, “Half of those are Tranquil, ser. They’re handy as anything to consult and help with the repairs, but I would stake my post on them being uninvolved, ser.”

That Cullen had to concede. Tranquil mages were hardly going to become double agents or carry out any sort of personal vendetta. It went against their nature.

“The other mages then, the ones that aren’t Tranquil. How many are in the Keep?”

Tamsen settled in her seat, rubbing her peeling nose again absently.

“Only three, ser. But Abbie has been out on patrol with Lieutenant Corr– the Lieutenant. She’s been tasked with watching the oasis to sneak soldiers out to get water when the wyverns are distracted and trying to chase them off when they’re not. Abbie’s got a good hand at distracting the wyverns with her magic, but not so much at keeping them that way for long or actually killing the things.” 

“And the other two?” He prompted.

“That’d be Welton and Alize, ser. Welton’s talented at telekinesis, so he’s been assigned to help with the heavy lifting. Ry– The Knight-Captain thinks that it’s best we try to reuse some of the rubble around the Keep instead of waiting for the shipments from Val Firmin, especially with the trouble out in the Approach. He’s been working mostly in the evenings when there are less men around to be in the way, with some of the Tranquil to aid him figure out what’s safe to move and what’s best left where it is.”

Cullen nodded, making a small ‘go on’ gesture with his fingers.

“Last is Alize. She’s more suited to making hearth fires, cooling meats, and so forth. She’s worked in the kitchens quite extensively.”

Tamsen’s mouth was thin, a crease between her brows betraying her unhappiness at volunteering that.

Cullen made an attempt at sounding offhand.

“A friend of yours?”

“Yes, ser.”

Cullen ran his fingers through his hair, sighing.

“And you knew each other before--?”

Tamsen shifted awkwardly on her feet, distinctly uncomfortable.

“No, ser. We ah, only met in this post. She’s a Marcher too.”

“Like Rylen.” Cullen mused, longing for the days before Leliana threatened him if he ever so much as thought about writing anything down about an ongoing security threat. Even concerns about mages in Kirkwall’s Circle didn’t merit such paranoia. Still, he had a decent enough memory to be able to recite almost the entirety of the Chant and could remember a few names and occupations for a few days.

The silence stretched on for a minute as Cullen lost himself in thought. He vaguely noticed Tamsen fidget and rub her nose again before she spoke up.

“If I may say so, Commander, I don’t think any of them could have done it. They have as much of a full reign of the Keep as any other soldier, but none are particularly strong mages and they’re all absolutely loyal to the Inquisition. None have worked harder to put this place together, keep it running…”

She faded off, eyes darting over Cullen’s face, trying to read his reaction.

Cullen bit back a sigh. He couldn’t blame her for vouching for her friends, her men. He’d do the same in a heartbeat for his, but he also couldn’t drop the search on her say so. He almost smiled bitterly at the thought—was this how Rylen felt about Krem? He shook his head.

“Thank you, lieutenant." He said after a moment, his fingers itching to read over the rosters again. "I'll look for your team request soon. Dismissed."

It wasn’t an answer and certainly not the consideration Tamsen must have wanted for her vouch of confidence, but she rose and saluted, face professional and unmoved, and took her leave.

With a sigh, Cullen turned to unlock the drawer with the reports. The top left, it had been? The drawer slid open easily after Cullen turned the key, but only a moment later he slammed it shut again, heart hammering.

He reached for the bottom left drawer and tried to forget where Rylen stored his lyrium kit even as the knowledge sang to him sweetly.

* * *

Cullen moved to his rooms to take his midday meal and to think about Krem's request from the other night. With all the revelations, tension, his meetings with Rylen, and the aftermath of concealing the truth from Krem, he hadn't given much thought to the question Krem had posed. He didn’t quite want to now either. He felt drained and knew that he would likely be chasing the mystery of the poisoner for many hours and days to come and needed his strength, but...

He also knew that those were excuses to put the question from his mind. 

So Cullen steeled himself and thought back to his training before he was assigned to his first Circle, before he took lyrium and was sworn in properly. 

To when he begged one of the mages to help him alter his body. The last time he’d been comfortable with a mage’s workings focused on him. 

When he’d been taller than the other boys in his cohort, though not as broad. When he’d read and reread the verses of the Canticle of Trials that soothed his mind, though he knew the words by heart already.

_ Who knows me as You do? _

_ You have been there since before my first breath. _

_ You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. _

_ You composed the cadence of my heart.  _

Cullen had no doubts that he was as the Maker intended him to be. He’d prayed and thought on the Maker’s will for years after the Knight-Captain that visited his small town had seen his potential and then had mistaken him for a boy. He’d bitten his tongue, worried that any fuss might change the man’s mind about taking him for formal training as a templar. And it wasn’t as if he’d truly minded being a boy. He’d been thirteen. It’d been exciting to choose a new name for himself, no effort to play along. And when it had turned out to be the truth… well, the Maker had truly aided him in sending someone who eased the way for him. There was no mistake in this.

But that resolve was hard pressed to cover asking a mage to perform magic on his body. It wasn’t the magic itself he’d feared. He hadn’t been as wary of magic then as he had been in the years since Kinloch. How could he have been? He’d grown up in Honnleath, famous only because it once housed the mage who’d defended Ferelden and been rewarded with sanctioned freedom. And there were several mentions in his studies of mages who had similarly been rewarded. Trusted. His keen eye had picked them out in the texts easily. Back then they’d been examples of what mages could aspire to be instead of the mark by which all other mages failed to measure up to that he would come to see later.

No, he hadn’t been worried about that. Instead he worried that he could easily be seen to be courting a mage to some sort of disobedience. He knew how poorly it would look to any mage to have a Templar hopeful ask for a covert magical favor. It might look like he was trying to set someone up and look clever for having caught an untrustworthy mage.

But he’d traced the words of Andraste’s teachings— _ Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him _ —and steeled himself to ask anyway.

He knew the mage who had helped him had died in the fray after Kinloch Hold had been sealed. Even in the worst of Cullen’s helpless rage after being freed he couldn’t bring himself to feel glad for it. He had been the one mage he’d known who’d used the leniency of the Templars and the freedom it gave to help a Templar initiate find peace. The one mage who brought solace instead of planning with the Senior Enchanter to become abominations and slaughter Cullen’s brethren when they were all already in the thick of the Blight and civil war. The very air in the Circle had felt wrong then. It’d been hard to draw breath and–

Cullen realized his knuckles were bone-white and shaking with tension and he took a deep breath, letting go of his spoon and pushing what was left of his bowl of stew away. 

This is why he didn’t want to think about this.

He hated the mix of dread, anger, and hot shame that never failed to lance through him. It felt like being dragged back in more than one sense.

He didn’t want to be the same man he was when he served under Meredith: emotional and eager to agree with anyone who felt the same. The man who hated what had been done to him with unreasoning, unending anger. Who’d hated that the Templars that escaped the Circle at Kinloch Hold before it had been sealed refused to see that _going back to the same measures and leniency_ _with the mages at the Circle would end in the same thing again_. Hated that they’d looked at him with worry when he spoke of it, like he was mad to look for causes and try to prevent what had happened to him from happening to others. 

The man who had found understanding with Meredith, whose sweet, gentle apostate sister had butchered her mother and left seventy dead when she’d turned into an abomination rather than submit to the safety of a Circle. Meredith, who knew that you could love your charges and still do what needed to be done to save others. Meredith, who’d been more than happy to accept and nurture him: a young Templar whose burning desire to serve drove him to agree and agree and agree, because no measure could be too severe if it saved lives, if it only could have prevented…

Cullen’s entire body felt like it was being wracked with fire. His hands shook and when he turned them palm-up he could see they were flushed red as though fevered. 

_ This isn’t helping. _ The thought raced through his mind with a growing intensity.  _ This isn’t helping. This isn’t helping. _

He couldn’t think back to when he’d been comfortable with magic without the keen reminder of why he wasn’t now. Why he couldn’t be. 

Maker! Krem couldn’t have set a harder task before him. And to think he’d suggested that the Charger’s apostate cast on him—No. 

Cullen sprang to his feet, trying to pace before pain lanced through his leg at the sudden motion and he grabbed the wall in frustration for support. 

He all but wrenched the door open when he heard a knock and barely cared when Rylen paused in the doorway, giving his disheveled state a cautious once over.

“If I had to guess, I’d say the reports I got of the Commander having a spat of some kind with the Charger’s lieutenant this morning is correct.” Rylen said evenly.

Cullen swallowed down a hot retort. Was he going to be censured by Rylen now too?

He moved aside so Rylen could step through, not trusting himself to speak.

Rylen paused.

“If I may–”

“No. It was a personal matter.” Cullen cut him off with a sharp gesture. “If that’s all you came to speak of–”

“It wasn’t.”

“Fine. Sit. Report.” He’d take this distraction from his thoughts. Cullen ran his hand through his hair and limped back to sit on his bed. He drew his palm over the wound on his thigh absently, massaging at the sore muscle despite the pain. Perhaps even because of it. It was a sharp sting that kept him focused.

Evidently Rylen thought it better than to ask about his mood again. He probably thought Cullen lost his mind entirely, Cullen thought bitterly. That was fine. He was in no mind to care.

“Well?” Cullen demanded when it became clear that Rylen had thought better of asking anything.

Rylen had taken a seat by the bed, but was stiff-backed and watching Cullen with ill-hidden concern.

“I came to see if you’d like to discuss the assault on the Venatori stronghold,” Rylen began, half-rising. “Though perhaps it’s best tabled for another time. I see you’ve barely touched your food.”

_ And it’s been at least an hour since it was sent to you _ went unsaid. Cullen was sure that after the wine incident that Rylen had been paying very close attention to the going ons of his meals.

Cullen felt stifled but forced the fight drain out of him and made himself reach a level of composure that he didn’t feel. He held up his hand and Rylen paused.

“It’s fine. I spent a few hours this morning on the issue—”  _ After going over the duty rosters so many times that the words blurred together and he got the beginning of a truly blinding headache. Krem had been right to call it chasing shadows. _ “—and I could use your thoughts.”

Rylen sat down again with an air of reservation. 

He accepted the loose pages Cullen handed to them, but barely glanced at them before meeting Cullen’s eyes again.

“Cullen,” Rylen began. Paused. Wet his bottom lip with his tongue, eyes sliding away from Cullen’s. “I can look over your ideas later and make the necessary alterations and arrangements. For now I think it’s best that you rest.”

“What?” Cullen’s hand trembled against his thigh and he curled it into his pant leg again to keep it still. 

Rylen met his eyes again, eyebrows pressed together in an expression that Cullen couldn’t remember being on his face before.

“I’m going to ask the healer to come take another look at you. You… have clearly been pushing yourself on your leg.”

Cullen wondered where he’d lost the conversation..

Rylen sighed, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest.

“You can’t hide a fever. Not on a man as pale as you anyway. While I can see you’d rather be on your feet–”

“What? I don’t have an infection!” Cullen protested, thoroughly thrown.

“–I don’t think that rest would be ill advised.” Rylen finished smoothly.

“Rylen.” Cullen pressed. He made sure to catch Rylen’s eye, speaking firmly, slowly. “I’m fine. I wouldn’t hide an infection. I’m in no hurry to lose my leg. Maker’s breath!”

Rylen looked tired, worn through. Cullen wasn’t sure if the desert had aged him so quickly or if it had been the events of the last year.

“I don’t plan on leaving my room for the rest of the day,” Cullen insisted. “If I’m keeling over tomorrow I’ll see the blasted healer then.”

“Fine.” Rylen breathed, shoulders sagging. Not with relief—as though a weight had been lifted from him—but with resignation. With the visible knowledge that he cannot bear to take on the strain of this argument as well.

Cullen wet his lips, waiting. After a moment Rylen turned his attention to the pages Cullen had given him, eyes flicking over the diagrams and options Cullen had drafted for the attack on the stronghold. Taking on an entrenched stronghold of mages was not a task that was undertaken lightly.

Cullen let the silence drag on until it became suffocating. It couldn’t have lasted more than a moment, but speech was better than his thoughts. 

“With my arrival and the reinforcements and supplies arriving in the next few days, it’s likely that they’ll be mounting their own defences in preparation for some kind of assault. There’s no point in playing coy about our intentions when we’re building a bridge directly to them.” Cullen summarised.

“My thoughts as well,” Rylen said, still scanning the page, before adding absently: “Though, the construction itself will be quick with the force we have at our command. “

Cullen must have made a small sound of surprise because Rylen glanced up at him.

“My da was a builder, remember? I could hammer together a solid footbridge by myself in a few days if I had the tools and lumber, Cullen. Sure, it’s a long bridge, but it’s mostly a straight, level shot on sun-baked solid ground, and it doesn’t have to support anything more than foot traffic. We’ll be quick as an arrow with a good dozen or two men working. Even with breaks for the heat. Without access to supplies like ours there’s very little they can do to reinforce their position more than they already have, but I’d rather not give the Vints a chance to put their heads together and cook up something nasty by delaying.”

Cullen bit the inside of his lip, thinking it over. 

“These could be a good start for the operation.” Rylen said with a note of admiration underlying his voice as he read further. 

“Thank you.” Cullen unhooked his fingers from his leg, folding them into his other hand and rubbing his palm gently. He’d stopped trembling, he realized dimly. He wasn’t sure if it was Rylen’s company that steadied him, the change in topic, or finally being able to feel like he was able to do something. He’d always had a steady sword hand.

It made him feel steeled for the other thing he wanted to talk about with Rylen.

“I heard the men are going to be clearing out the well.”

Rylen made a sound of vague agreement.

“Have you already selected all the men who will be sent?” Cullen pressed lightly.

There was a pause.

“No.” Rylen glanced up. “It’s a volunteer effort, meant to assemble the morning of the venture. Morale is low enough without dragging people down there. Though I’m sure they’re all well aware that I’m not above ‘volunteering’ people to go if our numbers fall short.”

Cullen tilted his head. That… wasn’t quite what Fionn had said to him. He said as much and Rylen nearly,  _ nearly _ looked like he’d rather change the subject.

“Ah.” He said. “Corporal Fionn.”

“Why do I get the feeling that he was ‘volunteered’?” Cullen asked drolly.

Rylen made a show of tucking the papers back together neatly.

“He seemed very eager to help out with anything the Keep needed after the… incident on the trip over.”

“So you ‘suggested’ that he help out with the well. I see.” Cullen did, in fact, see. Rylen’s habit of putting idle hands to work combined with his unexpected protective streak were the clear culprits.

Cullen could have sighed. He could have laughed. 

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to join him then.” He mused instead.

He tried not to smile at Rylen’s disbelieving look. 

“Come again,” Rylen said slowly.

“Rylen, I respect that this is your Keep.” Cullen explained, “But for most of the men here—for most of the men in the Inquisition—they have never met me. Yet they’re supposed to trust me to lead them into battle against a  _ demon army _ in a matter of weeks. I want them to know my face, to feel comfortable with me. I won’t argue that I don’t have the strength yet to haul any bodies we find away, but I want them to know that I would go with them.”

He paused.

“Besides, if you’re roping my officers into all manner of unsavory tasks, I ought to do my best to make sure they don’t suffer alone, right?” 

There was a slight bite in the words that Cullen couldn’t reign in. 

“You invent ways to torment me.” Rylen said, his attempt at levity falling just as flat as Cullen’s.

Cullen’s lips drew together.

Rylen caught his look and sighed again, slow and long-suffering.

“Fine.” He said. Clearly neither of them wanted to openly address the topic filling every silence. “If the healer clears you. It’ll be worse for morale if the Commander dies or loses a leg.”


	5. The Well

After Rylen left, Cullen spent the rest of the afternoon hiding from the sun and company. He busied himself turning the troop numbers and angles of assault over in his head again and again, trying to remain focused and productive even as his mind inevitably drifted to the frustrating problem of the poisoner and Krem and everything else threatening to overwhelm him when he paid it even the slightest thought.

By the time the sun kissed the horizon Cullen gave up the pretense of work and realized that he had absolutely no intention of keeping his earlier promise to Rylen to stay in his rooms for the night. He needed to go. To move. To do  _ something _ . If he couldn’t tame his idle thoughts and churning emotions through mental discipline then he’d exhaust himself another way.

He reluctantly tucked the crutch under his arm and trudged through the hallways, no destination in mind.

His feet lead him through the hallways and into the main thoroughfare of the Keep. The courtyard was still bustling with soldiers who were finishing the last tasks of the day, transitioning into scattered groups of friends and answering the first calls for dinner. 

With the onset of night, spots in the waning sun had suddenly become prized—the great bolts of fabric overhead cast ever-darkening and abandoned stripes of shadow throughout the Keep. Cullen drifted between them, largely out of the way of the bustle and camaraderie.

It was strange to look around and see not one familiar face among so many familiar uniforms.

He focused on moving from one level to another, passing through towering stone archways and up the steep stone steps. It wasn’t until he was climbing the final staircase that he realized he was seeking the last sight of sunlight and hurried his pace.

The highest level of the Keep was packed with the tools of industry: great tents and stations to sharpen blades and mend armor, benches where potion-makers crafted cures and ointments, and many more munition dispensaries besides. There were a few stragglers here, dedicatedly setting their tools in order for the next day’s work. 

As he passed one of the tents he saw Fionn speaking with a mage. They both turned to look at him as he limped closer, their faces bearing the same nose and tilt of the lips. It took Cullen a moment to realize he must be looking at Fionn’s cousin. 

“Commander?” Fionn asked. “Did you need something?”

“No, Corporal,” Cullen said, a jolt of uncomfortable familiarity running through him as Fionn’s cousin dropped her eyes at the sight of him and murmured a quiet “ser”. And hot on the heels of the memories it conjured was the realization that neither Fionn nor his cousin were as displaced and bondless in the Keep as Cullen felt. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow for the expedition down the well. Carry on.” Cullen dismissed himself, retreating across the courtyard as fast as was seemly.

As he looked up he could see the top spires of the Keep still licked yellow with the last light of day. 

There was still time, he thought, hurrying.

There was a secluded dais at the far end of the Keep where the Inquisition’s flag hung that he steered himself toward, pressing himself up the last few steps and into the sunlight with a sigh.

The light had alway helped after Kinloch. The wind, too, but this wind carried unfamiliar smells, hot and dry and occasionally spiced with sand. But the light always felt like the Maker’s touch, especially hot and heavy on his skin, present even with his eyes closed.

He leant against the railing and witnessed the sun melt away into the stretch of the Abyss. Behind him the sounds of the Keep dwindled until there was only the roar of the wind.

And inch by sure inch his shoulders dropped, the tension running out of him. The first twinkle of stars graced the dark above him, flecks of sand in the inky blue. He stood until his leg ached, but remained at the battlements, drinking in the calm of night.

The blast of magic against his back nearly threw him from them entirely.

Months before when lyrium still sang loudly in his veins the blast would never have touched him. But like Dalish’ shield spell, this spell wrapped itself around him, grabbed him, and broke itself against the remnants of lyrium haunting his body with the ever-present will to reject the touch of magic guiding it. 

But it didn’t give gracefully.

He slammed against the stone, hands clutching at the parapet urgently to prevent himself from being thrown over even as the breath went out of him and his crutch clattered to the floor. 

Instinct had him throwing himself to the side out of the way of the next blast and he whirled around, heart hammering in his chest, breath shallow and raw in his throat.

There was–

There was no one there.

Was there? Maker, there had to be. Magic did not come from nothing, like retribution seeking a guilty heart. 

He gripped the hilt of his sword, drawing it and widening his stance even as his leg cried out at taking the full weight of him.

His training had him trying to pull on the lyrium to cleanse the area of all magic, but he couldn’t—there was no longer enough for such a feat and his control slipped through his fingers. His heart hammered as his eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, catching nothing. 

He couldn’t stay where he was. Too exposed. He had to get closer, at least, to where he thought the blast had come from. To where his sword could actually do something more than give him a false sense of protection.

With that resolution, he threw himself forward down the stairs to the dias and put his back to the wall again, sword at the ready. Agony rose up like a wave, engulfing him. He felt everything in flickered moments of comprehension: the pulsating vengeance of his torn thigh as he pushed it beyond its limit, his bad knee threatening to give, his vision distorting, and the tremble of his hand as he struggled under the onslaught of pain.

_ You fool _ , he thought,  _ you’re giving them an opening _ . It didn’t matter that he was closer or if he had a sword if he couldn’t get himself together to _ use it _ .

But all he could hear was his breathing.

His ears strained even more, for anything—for the faintest breath, the faintest rasp of cloth over cloth. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t see anything in the midnight shadows of the terrace. He couldn’t–

There wasn’t anyone there.

Then, a sound. So faint he thought he was imagining it. A scuff of a shoe on stone and the faint retreat of unseen feet across the stone.

Cullen stood there, trembling minutely until the only thing left was the roar of the wind through the chasm of the Abyss, wondering if he had imagined it being anything else.

* * *

Cullen didn’t return to his room so much as he fled to it. It felt like the Keep was somehow distant and far away, his body moving through the hallways while he floated, aware, but utterly incapable of thought. The hallways were empty—maybe,  _ maybe. _ He kept feeling the false sensation of magic crawling over his skin, the abruptness of it, the shock, his hair standing on end over the gooseflesh of his arms. He catalogued the feelings remotely, the details lost almost immediately. 

He opened his door.

He closed it. 

He sat on the bed.

His heart had slowed into a deep, powerful rhythm. His hand shook on his thigh. Instinctively he gripped his leg to stop the quiver and immediately grit his teeth against the agony of digging his fingers into his healing injury.

He squeezed his leg again. Again. Again.

His breath went harsh and short and pained. His throat was raw and clenching.

Eventually the furniture around him, the stones of the room, everything he saw was a flat, unfocused backdrop and he remembered– he remembered–

The sensation of being hunted. A danger there-and-not-there. Utter, chilling helplessness. The empty clawing, aching space inside him that demons threatened to slip inside.

He sat there gasping until he collapsed back on the sheets and let sleep take him.

* * *

Cullen woke slowly, his fear and confusion washed away with rest. In their place was a heavy realization—his only thought beyond the familiar longing for lyrium.

There were enemies inside the Keep.

Krem was gone and there had been another attempt on his life.

He sent for Rylen.

* * *

“You were lucky, Cullen.” Rylen sighed from where he sat beside Cullen’s bed. Cullen could read the weariness in the furrows of his brow and the hunch of his shoulders. It was scarcely an hour past dawn and Rylen looked as though he had been awake for days. 

“I was,” Cullen allowed, “But we know something now.”

Rylen tried to evade his gaze, but Cullen was unrelenting. Rylen’s lips pursed and looked up to meet Cullen’s eyes.

“You know it couldn’t have been the Chargers.” Cullen said softly, leaning close. “They’ve been gone and if anyone with any experience with fighting had been facing against me, they would have continued to strike me even if I became aware of their presence. They had every advantage.”

“The gate has been closed and no one could have mounted the walls, not without drawing some attention from the watch.” Rylen murmured, but it was not quite an agreement.

Cullen felt a tentative but growing resolve taking over him. He knew that he couldn’t keep it off his face, that his friend must now see the truth that had always been there. That even by Rylen’s own measures, Krem was above reproach.

“Rylen.” He said firmly. “I’m calling Krem back. The supplies will be here from Val Firmin soon and we’ll be making the push for the Venatori. We need them.”

Even saying it made him feel stronger, anchored in the man he had struggled to make himself. It eased some of the guilt he’d been carrying since Krem was sent away to say it. The rest would have to wait for Krem to return so he could apologize again to his face and take him in his arms and make amends. 

Rylen nodded reluctantly, turning pensive again.

“This just sits ill with me. If it’s someone from within the Keep orchestrating these attacks, then they must have been here for a long time, unacting, showing no signs of being traitors before now. Why? We can rule out the mages currently in the desert on patrol and the Tranquil, which leaves few names left. If Alize were a traitor and had access to poison, she could have done us a great deal more damage from the kitchens. Welton as well—he’s been rebuilding the walls and clearing rubble within the Keep. He could have laid bad foundation or set a number of other accidents off without arousing much suspicion. Yet, I’ve examined his work myself and found it beyond reproach. And since being put under watch, none of the watchers have reported any oddness in the mages’ schedules or whereabouts. I admit there’s no other possibility I can think of to explain the attacks on you than to look to our own, but it makes little sense to me.”

Rylen’s lips thinned.

“Even so, we’ll have to imprison the mages and question them individually now.” 

_ Question them _ . Cullen’s elation turned sour at the thought. He knew what that meant for mages, inevitably, when their trustworthiness was brought to question. What desperation turned them to. 

A hand, warm and calloused, covered Cullen’s own and he focused on Rylen’s face, hovering close to his own.

“I’m here.” Cullen rasped.

If these mages were behind the attempts on his life, Cullen couldn’t say that they should be let free. Especially if they were the sort who might reach for powers beyond them in the Fade when asked to face questions and consequences for their actions. He could read the same resolution in Rylen—and who should know better than them?

“You should find rest, Cullen.” Rylen chided him. “I’ll take your place with men and you can spend the day resting.”

“It’s better for morale if I go.” Cullen refuted, “You can oversee things from above and we can speak with the mages afterwards. I want to be there. For the men and… for the mages.”

Rylen snorted.

“There is no way you will be going down the Well with your leg in that condition, Cullen. Not unless the healer clears you.”

“There’s nothing down there but water and the dead, Rylen.” Cullen refuted. “And I can’t hide away here after the attack. There’ll be rumors we can’t afford before the push on Adamant.”

Since arriving at the Keep, Cullen had hardly been the strong, charismatic Commander that the men needed at the fore. It was as though his arrival in the back of a wagon, bleeding and delirious, had been an omen of his stay. And with every day that passed, Cullen had felt his grasp on the man he needed to be weakening. With Krem’s innocence proven, he knew he needed to prove to himself that this matter and everything it had dredge to the fore were nearly behind him. A trip into the well on a bad leg would be a small price to pay for that peace of mind.

“Rylen.”

Rylen kept still, but Cullen could sense his will wavering. Cullen wanted Rylen with him, and he could think of no better way to remind him of their shared goals than with prayer. It was a familiar ritual among Templars.

“Pray with me before I go?” Cullen asked and he could see when Rylen reluctantly folded.

“Alright.” Rylen murmured, taking Cullen’s hands.

_ Maker, my enemies are abundant. _

_ Many are those who rise up against me. _

_ But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, _

_ Should they set themselves against me. _

A prayer for the despairing, Cullen thought wryly, but it felt like the start of something fresh and new.

* * *

Cullen was fairly certain that when he got back to Skyhold, Leliana would be waiting with an entourage of trusted healers and herbalists to punish him for this foolery. But in the meantime, despite the protests of Griffon Wing Keep’s healer, Cullen was going to be lowered into the Keep’s well.

He wasn’t a complete fool. He’d known before he touched down safely and let go of the rope that the water was only ankle deep. His wound was mercifully still closed after the night before, though still healing, and he wasn’t risking a fever or illness due to exposure. Straining himself was more likely but he already felt bolstered by taking action once again instead of being confined to his quarters to recover, fussed over and cosseted like a child.

Cullen stepped toward a wall and let his eyes adjust from the burning brilliance of the desert day to the dark of the well and the flickering light of the torches the soldiers carried. His thigh still ached with each beat of his heart, but he insisted on going without his crutch. He and Rylen had fought on this too, but Cullen wanted to send a message through gossip to his would-be murderers: he was stronger after their attempt than before.

It would also be good to be able to move freely while working alongside the men to clean out the bodies that the Venatori had used to pollute the well. The scout they’d sent down when they first claimed the fort had taken a quick look and seen at least two corpses before coming back, but they’d put off retrieval and burial in favor of securing a better water source for thirsty men and fixing the Keep’s questionable defense. 

Sound and reasonable measures, but it didn’t make the task now any more pleasant. In Cullen’s estimation it’d go a long way for the Commander to be seen pulling his weight, even if it was just to hold a torch and walk through the cave to check for additional bodies. Rylen had continued to offer to take his place all the way to the lip of the well, but Cullen insisted. With the mages confined, there was little to fear. 

Another soldier slid down the rope behind him and stepped to the side; a dark silhouette against the light coming down from the well. Cullen averted his gaze so he wasn’t looking into the natural light anymore. Slowly he could see the faces of those around him.

“Here, Commander.” The man next to him said, handing him a torch. Cullen could just make out that it was Fionn. 

“My thanks.”

Though there weren’t that many men ready to take on the odious task of clearing the caves, it still took a while for the party to organize itself. Supplies had to be guided down from above—-tarp and rope to remove any bodies found, chalk to mark the walls of explored passages, and additional torches—and no one involved was in any hurry.

By the time the last of the men had descended, Cullen had already decided how he wanted to tackle the well. From where Cullen stood, it seemed like the cave was mostly one winding, large natural chamber with several smaller tunnel offshoots. As it was, the two corpses the scout had seen earlier were dark lumps in the shallow water, far enough from the mouth of the well that their forms were barely highlighted by the torch light. It was likely that if there were more bodies dumped in the well that they’d have stayed within the central chamber even if they had been washed to the back of the chamber or around a corner.

He divided the men into small groups to search the central cavern and the tunnels beyond and tagged Fionn to walk with him as he went to inspect the first of the found bodies.

It was undeniably foul.

The bodies had been in the cave long enough to stiffen, bloat, and rip open from the build up of decay inside. If the bodies had been left under the sun they would have long since withered and been picked clean by scavengers and the wind, but as it was they had festered in the dark and the wet. This close they barely resembled anything human.

Cullen hardened his stomach, tightened his shoulders, and stepped closer so the ruins of the bodies were thrown into horrifying visibility under the torchlight.

The faces were unsurprisingly unrecognizable, but the clothes…

Venatori.

Cullen bit back his disgust. Fouling the well before the Keep was taken by the Inquisition he could understand. Never give ground that your enemies didn’t weep for keeping. But to use your own men… it went beyond disgrace into something Cullen had a hard time naming.

“Do you truly think there’ll be others?” Fionn ventured. He looked disquieted at the sight of the body, though he didn’t avert his gaze.

“Perhaps not.” Cullen allowed. If the Venatori had seen a last opportunity to spite the Inquisition and ran with it then it was unlikely. But there could be other pollutants in the water and since any efforts to decontaminate the well would be long and arduous it was ideal to begin the process with the best knowledge possible. Part of him wondered if the effort were truly worth it—would the Inquisition really want to keep the Keep as a base after Adamant was taken?—but best take the time now than be caught shieldless and unprepared later.

He called the nearest pair of soldiers to bring over a tarp and rope and see about lifting the filth from the water and moved on.

He was pleased to see that his men were taking a slow, thorough approach to sweeping the cave. All around the twisting cavern there were pockets of light illuminating small circles of the darkness like candles at night. The occasional drip seemed to echo in the main chamber, as did the murmur of voices and the slosh of boots through water. Cullen let the sounds wash over him and distract him from the sights behind him.

From what he could see there were several smaller tunnels that lead off the twisting main chamber. Most were filled with the same ankle to calf deep dark water, but there were a few where the water seemed to grow shallow and hint at drier passages. 

Fionn touched the wall of the nearest passage, fingers nearly brushing the chalk mark a soldier had already left.

“If I may, ser, I think the tunnels by the well will already have people poking their head down them.” Fionn noted.

“True. Let’s walk the length of the main cavern and see how many passages are still unoccupied.”

They set off steadily through the water, following the curve of the wall where they could and shying to the center of the cavern when there were stalactites that blocked passage or hung threateningly overhead. Cullen wasn’t sure how, but they were damp to the touch and small beads of water hung tightly to the blunted tips of the rock.

“Do you suppose the water comes through the rock, somehow?” Cullen mused. 

If it weren’t for the circumstances, Cullen would have said the cavern had its beauty. He tried to imagine the way the passages might have looked if the water were higher, waist level perhaps. Would they be passable only by boat, the light of their torches splintered across the water with each oar stroke?

“Your guess is as good as mine, Commander. Though while we’re stationed here I’d like to think that the rock the Keep was on was firm, if you don’t mind my saying so.” 

Cullen hadn’t considered that. It certainly took most of the shine out of his fanciful imagining of the caves.

As their voices faded into silent, Cullen could hear the faint sound of water lapping against stone in the caves. A slow rhythmic slosh, like a heartbeat, like footsteps.

From nearby or far away? The sound echoed strangely underground. Unfamiliarly. He couldn’t say what made his hair rise on the back of his neck, suddenly.

Cullen tensed and relaxed his muscles in turns, encouraging blood flow but staying limber enough to act if necessary. Well, inasmuch as he could on one weak leg and another injured one. He strained his ears in the near dark, one hand tightening around the torch.

“Commander?”

Cullen turned to Fionn, realizing belatedly that the Corporal was waiting for him to keep moving.

“I think we should press on.” Cullen answered with more certainty than he felt.

He had nothing to fear in the close dark of the caverns, he knew, though his heartbeat hammered in his ears, whispering the familiar worries that usually plagued him alone in the dark. His eyes kept drifting to Fionn as they moved, reminding himself that he was not alone here. That only moments before he had seen beauty in these passages.

When his breath came easier he was relieved. Though he knew he was safe, his calm had not quite returned from the night before. His body was jumpy, untrustworthy. His imagination overlaid Fionn’s face now with the unfamiliar cast of how he had looked in the dusk of the night before, speaking to his cousin. Cullen forced himself to focus on the now instead of mentally chasing rabbits into dark warrens. 

The water sloshed around their boots as they headed down the winding path, at some points raising close to the top of his long boots before dwindling down to ankle depth again. There was no light but that of their own torches anymore. The other soldiers must be down their own offshoots of the main tunnel, this section twisting and turning but remaining true to itself.

“I think it would have been some work to drag corpses all the way down here, if you don’t mind me saying, ser.” Fionn mused, holding out his hand to help Cullen over an unbalanced pile of rock. 

Cullen stepped onto it cautiously. Injured leg first and then his weakened leg, hand tightening around Fionn’s. He’d been worried that his leg wouldn’t hold up to any sort of serious strain, but he supposed if he could manage the steps with only an ache then this should be manageable too.

“I’m sure you’re right, Corporal, but I’d set any man to a week’s worth of digging latrines if he came to me with the same excuse for not doing a thorough sweep.” 

Fionn smiled. “We just had the poor luck of taking too long to pick a tunnel, I suppose. It’d be just our luck if this lead back on itself or got too small to traverse on foot.”

Cullen cast him a sideways look, steadying himself against a particularly stout stalagmite.

“Well, I suppose we’re stuck with it now. Onwards?” Cullen gestured him forwards.

The tunnel twisted just up ahead and Cullen drifted towards the far side of the tunnel, torch held high. A glint around the corner has his feet freeze, his hand on the hilt of his sword. In a second, his blood ran cold and his body felt stiff. Fionn was behind him in that second, hand reaching for his own weapon.

Cullen made an abortive movement to turn to the side, to shy away from the man behind him without taking his eyes away from the passage ahead. 

Fionn sent a look his way that Cullen couldn’t interpret. Cullen’s heart beat faster, his body half-turned to keep Fionn and the passage ahead in his sights. A moment passed. Twenty breaths. Thirty. Cullen’s muscles relaxed against his will, unable to stay at readiness indefinitely.

“Ser?” Fionn said, whisper-quiet.

Cullen swallowed, listening to the soft lapping of water in the echoing caves. Was it the natural slosh of water or a foot moving unseen close to them? He couldn’t know– he didn’t know.

Another series of breaths.

Shame struck Cullen again after a moment, numbing him. Nothing was happening. The light had been an odd reflection—torchlight, no doubt, against wet rock. Yet here he stood, waiting for an unseen blade, for the Corporal to spring into motion. Everything trustworthy suddenly an enemy in a moment of fear.

He drew himself together until it felt like he was witnessing himself move to lower his torch, to step forward, to turn Fionn and suggest with a short gesture that they get closer.

Fionn moved slowly, purposefully keeping his movements clear as he drew ahead of Cullen in the tunnel and braved the corner. Cullen watched the stretch of his back through his tunic and how the tense readiness of his muscles slipped away once Fionn had a moment to see what the glint was ahead.

“Oh,” Fionn sighed. “Forgive me ser, but,  _ for Andraste’s sake _ .”

For a moment Cullen was caught between shame and indignation—believing that Fionn was scolding him for his behavior but a moment ago—before sense reasserted itself and Cullen stepped forward ahead of Fionn to see what Fionn already had.

The glint revealed itself to be one of those strange golden mosaic tiles the Inquisitor took great pleasure in finding all over Thedas. That wasn’t what had Cullen making a silent prayer to the Maker.  _ That _ would be the yawning cavern entrance behind it illuminating the small chamber with broad beams of light.

A perfect backdoor to the Keep.

Cullen growled, turning around to face Fionn. “Corporal, we need–”

He watched Fionn’s eyes go wide, felt the Corporal pulling Cullen toward and behind him, away from– 

A blade drove into Cullen’s back, deep enough to chase the breath from his lungs.

Cullen’s knees hit the water, his pants soaking through in an instant as he tried to clutch the wall to keep upright. His torch landed beside him with a splash, dousing the flame and momentarily blinding him with the change in light.

There were boots splashing through the shallow water behind, Fionn shouting, and Cullen choked on a laugh, the irony of Krem’s parting words ringing in his ears.

_ Try not to die because you’re a fucking idiot. _ But Maker, he was. He  _ was _ .

He struggled back to his feet, hand reaching behind him to feel the wound. He could feel blood run over it, the injury bleeding freely, but a careful—yet painful—press let him feel that it wasn’t as deep as he feared, not the piercing blow it had been poised to be before Fionn pulled him from its path.

“Maker’s breath,” he cursed, forcing himself to turn around and put a face to his assailant. Someone had tried to do away with him first by guile, then magic, and now sword. A cold, furious feeling began to fill him at the thought of it. It chased out the fear, the doubt, and the pain and let him steady his feet under him.

Yet, by the time he turned around, his would-be murderer had fled and Fionn was standing halfway across the cavern, his hand shielding his eyes as he tried to peer into the piercing glare of the sunlight beyond. 

“Who was it?” Cullen demanded, limping the distance, trying to blink the blinding brightness away.

“I’m sorry, Ser.” Fionn apologized. “I only saw a shape behind you—dark against the mouth of the cave. The light was in my eyes.”

Cullen cursed their luck, pulling his hand from his back with a pained hiss. Fionn made a sharp, surprised sound at the sight of his palm slick with blood.

“Commander–” 

“It’s fine. Not deep. We need to go. The Inquisition must be told of this entrance.”

“And the assailant–”

“Hang the assailant!” Cullen snapped, then gentled his tone when Fionn blinked at him. It wasn’t Fionn’s fault this was happening. Whoever’s it was was beyond his reach at the moment. 

“I’ll discuss that with Rylen directly. For now, we need to get back, hopefully without being stabbed again on the way.” Cullen amended.

Fionn unwound the scarf around his neck and held it out to Cullen to wrap around his injury. Begrudgingly, Cullen obliged. He was still too flush with the sudden shock of a fight to feel it fully, but he had no doubt that by the time they were back in the Keep proper he’d be grateful he put it on.

“Let’s go. I’d rather not be here if he returns.”

Arm over Fionn’s shoulder, the other man supporting his weight to help him move faster, they tried to trace their path back through the tunnels as best they could. But progress was slow. They kept pausing abruptly to watch the water swirling beneath their feet in the near dark, paranoia and the echoes in the caves keeping them on edge with their sight all but robbed from them. Fionn kept murmuring something too soft for Cullen to catch and it felt an age before they reunited with the other soldiers at the well entrance.

Their arrival kicked up a swell of sound from the Inquisition and Cullen found himself lifted out of the well in short order. 

“I’m fine.” He insisted, even as Rylen pushed himself to the fore of the group that had gathered at the mouth of the well. “Maker’s breath, let me breathe.” 

It was hardly the return he had hoped for—to be bloodied and bent over before the shocked faces of his men from such a simple task! Clearing out a well! Andraste, give him strength, but Cullen found himself well and truly angry now. At himself, at these unknown enemies, and at the shame he felt for being so thoroughly useless as to be nearly done in on a task that was more fitting to a sewer minder than the Commander of the Inquisition.

Rylen gestured the crowd back and Cullen kept his feet under him, arm twisted behind him so he could put pressure on the gash. He kept his back as straight as he could, trying to preserve what remained of his dignity and reduce the panic he could see about to break out among the men.

“What is going on?” Rylen demanded, looking between Cullen and the soldiers rising from the well along the rope. “What happened to the Commander?”

“Ser,” Fionn said, hovering at Cullen’s side, “There’s a back entrance to the Keep– passage straight into the Western Approach!”

Cullen swore, trying to gesture for Fionn to stop talking as soon as he had begun, but it was too late: whispers broke out among the men and Cullen could see even more faces after faces turn worried or angry at the news.

And at that moment Cullen became aware of another commotion. Across the courtyard he could see the gate opening. 

The supplies from Val Firmin had arrived and beside them– 

“Krem.” Cullen breathed.

The Chargers had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MissivesFromGhosts has been filling my head with ideas and there may well be a chapter 11 to add in a scene they really wanted to see.


	6. Once a Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The magnificent MissivesFromGhosts has been putting in a lot of work to make sure this fic is readable to other people. Prayers for them, because I make the same grammatical errors constantly.

Cullen had imagined his reunion with Krem in various ways—and several  _ had _ involved him lying facedown and undressed in bed when Krem walked in—but none had involved a healer sewing up a gash on his bared back as part of the picture. 

He watched over his shoulder as Krem stepped in the door and paused, eyes narrowing with a rapid flicker of emotions that had Cullen swallowing.

Krem was even more sun-kissed than Cullen had last seen him. His lips were chapped from wind and sand and he had a pinched, weathered look about him that Cullen drank in all the same. 

Behind him, Cullen could see another body or two in the hall, but he couldn’t distinguish if they were the guards Rylen had set outside his door once more or Krem’s men.

Speaking of Rylen, the man rose from the chair beside Cullen’s bed and took a step towards Krem. But whatever he meant to say was lost when Krem growled.

“If the next words out of your mouth are anything but a variation of ‘please, take my chair’ you’re going to wish that the Venatori were your only troubles.”

With that, Krem pushed past Rylen, shoulder bumping him as he came to stand at Cullen’s bedside.

“You.” He said, curling his fingers under Cullen’s chin. “Start talking.”

Cullen pressed his face into Krem’s hand gratefully. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring his touch, and couldn’t help the flood of relief he felt that Krem was by his side again.

“Krem,” He breathed. “Thank the Maker.”

Krem took in Cullen’s expression and something in the set of his shoulders eased slightly. He sank into Rylen’s chair and let his hand drift to Cullen’s back instead, coming to rest above the wound the healer was tending to. It was a steadying weight against his too-hot, too-sensitive skin and Cullen was grateful that the chair beside him was positioned so he could see Krem atop it without twisting overly much. Both were an unspeakable comfort to him.

“Well?” Krem demanded once he’d settled, though his tone was less severe now than it had been a moment before. 

“I was a fool.” Cullen admitted readily, the very sight of Krem after such a sore absence driving him on. It had been the only thing he could think of since his assault in the cave, that for all of Cullen’s maneuvering and wishful thinking Krem had been right: it hadn’t done anything to protect him. “I should have kept you beside me.”

“Cullen.” Rylen said sharply.

“Oh, are you still here?” Krem snapped, turning to face the Knight-Captain. “Don’t you have assassins to chase and false intelligence to hand out? Or do you want to bask in his pain?”

Cullen winced. He could feel the tension in the room rising. Even the healer’s fingers paused on his back before continuing with greater haste than before—he wasn’t the only one that dreaded being there for the oncoming storm. But while the healer had an excuse to leave, Cullen knew he couldn’t avoid the clash so easily.

“False intelligence.” Rylen repeated, his voice absolutely flat and unforgiving. “I see.”

Cullen knew that it was plausible that Krem and the Chargers had realized the inacurracy of the map from spending their time following its markers in the Western Approach. The inaccuracies themselves could have been the result of shoddy work. Receiving that map at all could have even been a mistake—Rylen could have mistakenly given Krem an older map, perhaps. There could have been many things that caused Krem to doubt the veracity of the map in isolation of anything Cullen had said. But the way Krem had said it so venomously left little room for doubt that he knew how intentional the map’s inaccuracies were and Rylen’s deliberate involvement in them.

And if Krem knew, then surely Rylen would think that the rest of the Chargers did as well.

_ Oh, Maker. _

“Surely,” Cullen tried, wetting his suddenly dry lips, “this can wait for a better moment?”

“Yes,” Krem was quick to agree. “When you’re not bleeding all over the sheets—again—because… of what exactly?”

Cullen was sure that Krem must have heard something between his arrival at the gates and barging into Cullen’s bedroom but, as a career fighter, Krem knew better than most at how soldiers gossiped until the truth was barely part of the story. Cullen could not do worse than he already had by relaying the events in the cave, especially since any attempt of secrecy had been lost when Fionn had spilled the beans.

“I was accompanying the soldiers in clearing the Keep’s well. There were bodies left there by the Venatori before they abandoned the fortress and it would be good for me to be seen alongside the men cleaning them out.”

Krem tapped his fingers against Cullen’s back in an encouraging way, so Cullen continued.

“Corporal Fionn and I went into one of the last passages and found it opened to the outside. While we discussed what to do, I was attacked. A man was there, lying in wait, I assume. Fionn tried to pull me out of the way, but it wasn’t enough. After scoring me, the assailant fled and we couldn’t follow. We didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Of course you didn’t. That would have been too useful.” Krem muttered, adding what sounded like a Tevinter curse under his breath.

“It would have.” Rylen agreed coldly.

Krem ignored the bait as though he had not dropped similar barbed remarks only moments before.

“I’ll have Stitches and Dalish come to look over your wound. I’m glad you’ve got your own healer—” Krem tipped his head in the direction of the man finishing sewing up Cullen’s back, “—but I’d feel better with one of our own taking a look as well since, frankly, your safety here has been pretty shit so far.”

Dalish. The mage. Cullen winced, looking away. He… hadn’t given more thought to Krem’s question since being driven into the night from the agony of confronting his past last time. Even the memory made his pulse race, his breath quicken. He couldn’t face magic right now, not even for healing. Or the attempt of it, given Dalish’s lack of aptitude and his own uncontrolled purging of magic.

“No.”

For a moment, Cullen thought he’d spoken his thoughts. Then he realized that he hadn’t—it was Rylen.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Krem said breezily, “And making decisions for the Commander of the Inquisition is a little beyond you, isn’t it?”

“And yet I outrank you.”

Krem leaned back in his chair with an expression that Cullen knew meant trouble. He bit back a sharp sound as the healer tied off his stitches with a swift yank and hastily wiped his skin clean of blood. Cullen commiserated with the man for wanting to make a quick escape, but wished he wouldn’t do so quite so painfully, for Andraste’s sake. 

“I think you’ll find that The Iron Bull’s Chargers are an independent mercenary group contracted directly to the Inquisitor.” Krem drawled, “And so: no. You don’t. You’re free to make  _ suggestions _ , however, though I’ll save you the trouble and tell you: your suggestions are denied.”

Cullen sat up so the healer could wrap clean bandages around him. The man refused to meet Cullen’s eye, working as swiftly and clumsily as a child rushing to do his chores before his parents came back. At least in this position Cullen could see both Krem and Rylen—who were facing each other down like wolves.

“Krem,” Cullen called, fighting back a wince as they both turned their gazes upon him. “I’ll—later. With the supplies just arrived and a backdoor to the Keep under our feet, there’s more we need to do before then. My back will hold until then. I promise.”

On that note, the healer tied the end of the bandage off and slipped back, bowing, to the door before making a quick retreat. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Forgive me, Cullen, but your word apparently leaves something to be desired.” Rylen said unforgivingly, gesturing at Krem with a curt gesture but keeping his eyes locked on Cullen. “Especially in regards to the matter at hand: the safety of the Keep.”

“Finally. Out with it then. I’m a Tevinter spy. A Tevinter assassin. A Tevinter excuse for all your problems, am I right?” Krem accused.

Rylen had yet to look away from Cullen.

“You made a promise to me.” he said quietly.

“I–”

“Don’t feel bad.” Krem remarked. “He lied to me too, for you. Bit bad at that, Cullen is.”

The bite to the words cut deeply and Cullen rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort, knowing he deserved them but wanting nothing more than to escape them. His throat was nearly too tight for words.

“We should not be fighting.” Cullen muttered. “We have a fortress of Venatori breathing down on us and assassins in our midst. We hardly need to do their work for them to drive us apart.”

“And yet, we must have faith in each other to stand together.” Rylen countered.

Cullen pressed his other hand against his thigh and closed his eyes. The pang of pain was nearly welcome. He didn’t want to do this. He wished he could be anywhere else.

“Maker, Rylen, I know. I lied to you. You knew I didn’t agree—”

“—and yet, you did. You  _ swore _ to me—”

“I—”

“—and now we are back where we started.”

“What?” Cullen managed, eyes falling open as he squinted at Rylen in confusion.

Rylen’s face could have been carved from stone. 

“Since there’s apparently little reason to expect to keep anything  _ private _ ,” Rylen stressed, “I’ll speak plainly. When you were attacked, we knew it couldn’t have been one of Lieutenant Aclassi’s men because the gate was shut and the Chargers were sealed outside. However, the Keep is not as secure as we thought at the time. And only moments after you were stabbed, the Lieutenant and his men arrived at the Keep’s gate, meaning that they had to have been in the area.”

“Oh, of course.” Krem said dangerously, leaning into the absurdity of the claim with cutting sarcasm. “Since I always know where Cullen is and what he’s doing even when I’m in the wilderness, right? That’s how I knew he would be in the well— and would choose to enter that specific passage— and have one of my men present at that exact moment. Oh, and then I decided to show up at the door immediately afterwards with all of my men accounted for! That makes sense.”

“We know with certainty that the assailants have access to magic. Our mages have been under watch by Lieutenant Tamsen since the poisoning, but yours have not.”

“Oh really? How fucking convenient. Before, you said that plenty of people were in the kitchens and that Corporal Fionn saw the attacker in the well stab Cullen. Somehow poison and a dagger in the back don’t strike me as fucking magical.” 

“We know that the assailant has magic beyond a doubt because I was also attacked on the battlements by an invisible attacker.” Cullen confessed. “They tried to use magic to push me over the edge.”

Krem’s face went cold to conceal the flash of worry behind his eyes.

“When?” he demanded. “Kaffas, Cullen.”

“The point is,” Rylen interjected, “An invisible scout could have entered through the tunnel, poisoned the wine, attacked Cullen on the battlements, and then made another attempt when Cullen was in easy reach of the back entrance. Perhaps on the last attempt it was pure chance they crossed paths: Cullen’s appearance startled him and there wasn’t enough time to recast the invisibility spell, which is why Corporal Fionn saw him. But it proves without a doubt that the attackers were forces acting from outside the Keep.”

“Sure but—and excuse me for pointing out the fucking obvious here—if the Venatori were dumping their bodies in the well there’s no reason to think that they don’t know about the tunnel and, oh, also have an army of mages at their command and a vested interest in destroying the command structure by themselves without needing to drag in any convenient ‘inside agents’ to play the middleman.” Krem spat. “Somehow I don’t think you have a strict watch on their actions either. But no, it’s far more likely that the mercenary company that has never set foot in these forsaken wastes knew about a secret passage into the Keep and decided that now was the time to stab the Commander to death even though he’d slept in their midst on the road for the last few weeks and they could have spun any tale about his demise with few witnesses. That would make perfect sense.”

“You’re both arguing the same case.” Cullen tried. “The Venatori are behind the attacks. We can’t keep fighting–”

“No, we’re not! He’s accusing me of trying to have you  _ murdered _ , Cullen!” Krem leapt to his feet, chest heaving with each breath as he shook with betrayal. Krem’s hands were clenching by his sides and Cullen shrank with guilt under Krem’s wounded eyes. He knew that, he just–

“And he’s trying to get you to ignore the possibility of his men acting against you merely because he said so. Because you apparently rely on his word alone to guide you when he isn’t even part of the Inquisition.” Rylen disputed. “Or is it unfair of me to make my own accusations in light of the evidence before us? When you broke your word to me and compromised the safety of the men at the Keep–”

“Enough!” Cullen shouted.

His breath came hard and he struggled to speak. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest, his skin flushed red from heightened emotions—pain, guilt, fear, and anger, all at once. 

“Rylen,” He said tightly. “Can you tell me that any of the actual evidence implicates Krem or the Chargers? Not circumstantially, not because there are mages in Krem’s employ, but because we have seen or found something tying them to the attacks?”

“The timing–”

“Any attacks on my person would have had to have waited for my arrival if the Venatori were behind them directly as well, Rylen.” Cullen stated. “And we discussed this. Did you not say that you wouldn’t go into this investigation with a suspect already in mind? That we would look only at the evidence before us?”

Rylen pressed lips together and said nothing. His body was so still that Cullen could barely tell if he breathed. It was like looking at a statue of someone he knew—familiar, but wrong. Cold and unapproachable. Cullen felt as though he was watching a boat become unmoored and swept away downstream beyond his grasp, beyond his powers to pull back to where it should be.

“Rylen?” Cullen pressed.

“No.” Rylen said. “I can’t provide evidence to your satisfaction.” 

And with that he jerked into movement, not waiting to hear more or be dismissed. He turned for the door and let it slam shut behind him as he made his leave, never looking back.

* * *

_ Mighty of arm and warmest of heart, _ _   
_ _ Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow, _ _   
_ _ Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill. _

_ -Canticle of Andraste, Andraste 1 _

* * *

When there was sorrow, when there was pain, when there was the inescapable dread that Cullen could scarcely bear, there was always the Maker and duty.

He lit a fresh candle at his bedside and spread the scouts’ reports of the Venatori stronghold across his lap. It said something, he knew, that planning an assault on a mage infested fortress on the lip of an abyss felt reassuringly straightforward.

He heaved a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face and down his neck. He couldn’t help but glance at his side, at the dark shape of Krem on the far side of the bed, turned away and distant in sleep. They had scarcely talked after Rylen left. Krem had stood, shaking and silent, for a long time. Cullen had feared that Krem would have left as well. He dreaded it, sitting in silence and not daring to meet Krem’s eyes.

But instead Krem closed off in parts. A short breath to steady the heaving of his chest. His face smoothing out into an impassive expression. Krem prepared for bed by rote—the way that Tranquil carried out their tasks. Like they were barely aware of each action and experience alone guided them to the end successfully. 

Cullen had eased onto his back and thought of nothing he could say to break the chasm of silence.

It was only after Krem’s breathing eased from short, controlled breathing to the slow, deep draws of sleep, that Cullen felt freed of his paralysis. In that moment, Cullen had reached for the assault plans. 

He knew what truth the Chant would speak to him if he opened his heart to the Maker. 

_ Those who bear false witness _

_ And work to deceive others, know this: _

_ There is but one Truth. _

_ All things are known to our Maker _

_ And He shall judge their lies. _

It was a condemnation he knew he deserved. 

He had lied to Krem and to Rylen, the men who had been steadfast by his side, both wanting him to prosper and remain safe. It felt hard to remember why. It was difficult to see himself in that light but–

_ The one who repents, who has faith, _

_ Unshaken by the darkness of the world, _

_ She shall know true peace. _

–and so he turned back to his pages, running through the plans he had already drafted, the ways in the Inquisition could best protect its interests and men in the assault.

He had faith. After the assault he could– things would be different then. 

* * *

There was a sharp rap at the door in the morning and Cullen groaned as he tried to sit up and his stitches pulled. With a grimace, he levered himself out of bed and hobbled to the door, keenly reminded of every ache his body could hold so early in the day and the injuries that compounded the pain.

After rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes he pulled the door open.

In the otherwise empty hallway, Lieutenant Tamsen peered up at Cullen over a sheaf of papers in her hand. Judging by her full armor, weapon buckled at her belt, and the smattering of sand in her scarf, she had already been making rounds outside the Keep. Her nose was peeling even worse than he had last seen her and underneath the flaky white strips was the shiny, unhappy red of new skin.

“Sorry for waking you, Commander.” Lieutenant Tamsen murmured. “May I come in?” 

Cullen hesitated but he and Krem had both slept mostly clothed the night before and no secrets would be exposed by her presence. And as long as they spoke softly, it shouldn’t disturb Krem.

“Of course.” 

He stepped aside to let her in and caught the moment that her eyes fell on the shape of Krem under the covers. Her mouth did something complicated, as though she wasn’t sure whether to purse her lips or—Cullen wasn’t sure—and she turned back quickly. 

“The Knight-Captain said he reviewed the plans you’d put together for the assault on the stronghold.” Tamsen said, “He asked me to deliver his notes to you.”

She held out the pages she’d been clutching and Cullen took them, frowning as he skimmed Rylen’s familiar handwriting. 

“I’ve made some changes since.” Cullen murmured. Quite a few with how late he had stayed awake. “Where is Rylen now?”

Tamsen shifted from one foot to another, putting her hands on her belt. 

“Out, Ser.” She said, avoiding his eye.

“Out?” Cullen echoed. 

“He’s at the construction site for the bridge, Ser, overseeing supplies.”

“Ah.” Cullen said neutrally. “I thought I had assigned that task to you. You’re more than capable of being in command of the operation without supervision. You already assist Rylen with the rest of the duties of the Keep, do you not?”

Tamsen wet her lips and looked down, her eyes lingering on the bandages that looped around Cullen’s waist.

“He said that solid foundations needed to be laid under an experienced eye. I’ve already assembled the men and will be overseeing the rest of the construction once he returns this afternoon, Ser.” She demurred.

“I see.”

Cullen ran his hand over the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles. 

“Tell Rylen that we’ll meet tonight to decide on the plans together.” Cullen decided. “It’s more effective than ferrying comments back and forth and we have only a small time before the assault.” 

“I will. But… Commander…”

She shifted from one foot to another again, wetting her lips with her tongue. Cullen could see how her eyebrows drawn together and mouth pinched again as soon as she finished speaking.

“...yes?” Cullen asked.

“The Knight-Captain… he said that you were injured last night in an attack. If I may… that is... may I see?” She paused, swallowing. “It’s just that… the rumors sounded pretty awful. But the Knight-Captain hasn’t spoken much of it and...”

Cullen sighed as she trailed off. 

“I assure you, I am quite well. The blade barely pierced me, thanks to Corporal Fionn. The healers also said that I could try light potions to hasten healing of the puncture now that my leg is in less critical condition. Unfortunately, even with potions, my leg won’t be strong enough in time to route the Venatori here, but I will be on my feet before we push for Adamant.”

He turned and puttered back to his bed, arranging Rylen’s papers beside the sheets of new notes he’d made the night before. He could already feel a faint headache starting at the thought of making a coherent strategy out of his half-formed thoughts and the lack of knowledge about the Venatori’s forces, the terrain, and, well, general abilities.

His eyes drifted to Krem, who had turned in his sleep to face Cullen. Krem’s scarred shoulder was hunched close to his neck awkwardly in this position, curled on his side with his face half smothered in the pillow. Cullen leaned over to gently tug the sheet higher over his shoulder; even in the heat Krem liked to sleep nestled deep in the bedding.

He looked up at the sound of a boot scuffing on stone and saw that Tamsen had crossed half the room while he was distracted. Her eyes were on Krem, her expression troubled, and her hands clenched at her belt.

Cullen frowned.

“If that’s all, Lieutenant?” He asked, though his tone made it clear it was a dismissal.

“Ah… yes. Sorry, Ser.” She said, shaking her head. “I’ll let the Knight-Captain know you wish to meet with him.”

Cullen watched her go and bit back another sigh before settling on the bed next to Krem. Andraste knew things could be worse, but with a battle looming over the Keep, Cullen and Rylen couldn’t afford to avoid each other forever. Though, he thought, thinking of the warm sheets beside Krem. Perhaps thinking of a way to speak with Rylen could wait another hour.

* * *

It turned out that there was no strategy needed to speak to Rylen about the construction. Any question about the number of men assigned to the task, the time it would take to complete it, or the conditions of the operation were met with the cool professionalism that Cullen had always respected about him. Even discussing notes on the assault went smoothly; Rylen saw the merit in some of Cullen’s plans and made clever suggestions elsewhere. 

It was just… everything else.

Where Rylen may have ordinarily quirked his lips or paused with amusement, he was now silent and unmoving. He didn’t avoid Cullen’s eye, but instead looked at Cullen so directly that Cullen found himself uncomfortable. By the time he came back to his room he was thoroughly exhausted.

“The healer left potions for you.” Krem said when Cullen returned. 

He was lounging in the chair by Cullen’s bed, one foot propped up on the bed and the other folded under him as he drank from a wineskin. In his other hand was a battered copy of  _ Hard in Hightown. _

“Maker, I thought you were done with those.” Cullen said. 

Several raucous readings of the book had taken place on the journey to the Keep. Bull’s Chargers had seized upon Cullen’s flustered discomfort with glee and teased him mercilessly, linking arms with him to keep him from fleeing as they tossed the book back and forth and read raunchy passages in ridiculous voices.

It had been humiliating and yet undeniably pleasurable to find himself laughing along with the rest, his ears burning at the bolder portions of the work. And, Maker, imagine Varric was fond of calling it more playful than explicit! But it was also tiring to be teased mercilessly and he was already weary.

“Am I?” Krem wondered as he leafed through the book absently, taking no heed of which page or chapter he turned to. “Guess not.”

Cullen lowered himself carefully to sit on the bed in front of Krem.

“Krem,” Cullen hesitated, placing a hand on Krem’s foot. He rubbed Krem’s ankle through the boot gently, waiting for Krem to raise his eyes to meet Cullen’s own.

“Tell me about your mission in the Approach?” He asked.

“Do you need a full report, Commander?” Krem said idly. 

“No,” Cullen said. “Not a report—I want to know how you were. How everything was. Did Dalish and Grim fare alright?”

Krem flipped the pages with his thumb; barely paying attention. 

“No one died.” He answered curtly.

“But… how are they?”

“Fine.” 

Cullen sighed.

“Krem,” He entreated. “Please.”

“They suffered, Cullen. What do you want me to say? That it was fine? Sure. It was fine. It was fine that they had to go back into the heat too soon for a bullshit reason. We kept them in the shade and wind and gave them plenty of water while we hunted down the varghest. Did the best we could. But it was still shit. If you're lucky, the boys won't find out that you could have headed this whole nonsense off.”

“You… didn't tell them?” Cullen hesitated.

“Oh. I told them.” Krem said, lifting the wineskin to his lips. “I said there was political nonsense and to ignore anything on the map we couldn't validate with our eyes. Good thing too. Kept us sharp and let us find a nest of the fuckers before they got the drop on us. But if you're wondering if I sold you out? No, Cullen. I didn't.”

He took a long pull from his drink, head tilted back. Cullen watched his throat bob and felt small.

“I'm sorry.” He said, running his hand over Krem's ankle and shin again. “And… I'm glad they're back safe.”

Krem made a noncommittal sound and slouched further in his seat, boot scuffing the covers as he shifted.

Cullen tugged Krem's foot into his lap instead of letting him continue to dirty the bed. He pulled off Krem's dusty boot and dropped it to the floor, where it landed with a heavy slap against the stone. That, at least, was familiar. Skyhold's thick walls could be unrelentingly cold, but they were sturdy and muffled sound—through rooms at least—fairly well even if they made everything in the vicinity that much louder.

Krem gave him a long, searching look when Cullen pressed his thumb into the arch of his foot, but allowed Cullen to work at the tense muscles there. 

“And you?” Cullen prompted.

“I killed three myself.” Krem reported. “Just get them to stay still long enough and they can't hold up to a mace.” 

Krem’s lips hovered on the edge of a smile, his eyes averted to the side as he was doubtlessly caught in memory. Then, abruptly, he thinned his lips and took another long drag of wine. 

That was Cullen’s sign to back off for the moment. Nothing good ever came from pushing Krem before he was ready; a lesson that Cullen had taken an embarrassingly long time to learn as he struggled to instinctively fill the silence.

Instead, Cullen concentrated on kneading his foot slowly, starting just above the heel and tracing the curve of the arch to the ball of Krem’s foot, working the muscles loose as he went. 

Krem lived a hard life on the road and any of his muscles could be knotted, tense, and painful even on a good day. But, even so, the tension gave with patience and care. Care that Cullen was eager to give. 

While he worked, Cullen kept silent and watched Krem slowly drain the wineskin. 

There was a certain set to Krem’s shoulders that always betrayed where his attention was. When he read for pleasure, Krem hunched over the pages as though to shield them from the wandering eyes of others. But when Krem was tilted forward just so, with his arms loose and ready for action—as he was now—Cullen knew that he was trained on the person in front of him. 

Even under the heaviness of Krem’s attention, Cullen stayed quiet. He couldn’t tell if Krem was spoiling for a fight or upset. But either way he didn’t want to break the peace.

Eventually, Krem gave up the pretense of the book and tossed it to the floor, leaning back to watch Cullen openly.

Cullen wet his lips and reached for Krem’s other foot, pleased that Krem didn’t stop him from pulling that boot off and turning his attention to the tight muscles there. It was an effort to restrain himself from speaking so he buried himself in the facade of being too busy to notice that Krem was watching him.

“Cullen.” Krem said eventually. Cullen’s name lingered in the air, waiting. 

Cullen kept his chin tucked down, his hands busy. Krem sighed, frustrated. Cullen wasn’t proud of ignoring him. But he couldn’t help the jolt of sudden terror that ran through him at the thought of what Krem could say. It was like a voice inside of him cried out for Krem to just– to not. To let the moment pass. To undo what was about to happen.

Unfortunately, Krem didn’t hear the same voice inside of himself.

“Cullen.” Krem commanded. 

Regretfully, Cullen lifted his eyes.

Krem’s lips were pressed together. He slowly lifted his feet out of Cullen’s grasp and Cullen felt shieldless. He rubbed his neck, digging his nails in slightly, scraping over the skin to distract himself.

“I’m sorry.” Cullen said, reflexively. 

“I know, Cullen.” Krem sighed, a look of frustration stealing over him. As he spoke it boiled over into his voice, which turned tense and just shy of a shout. “That’s the thing. I know you are. You look it. But you still made this mess. You hurt the boys. You hurt– And every time I look at you, you look as though I’m going to punish you. You’ve been wearing that look near since we got here. And I can’t talk about anything or even be openly angry at you for the shitty things you’ve done because you look like you’ll collapse. And I don’t understand  _ why. _ I don’t.”

Krem ran his hand over his face in a jerky, flustered movement. He tucked his feet under him on the chair and swore in Tevene. His book went flying under the bed as Krem let loose the frustrations that had doubtlessly been building since his exile into the Approach.

“You keep being sorry. Sorry to tell your friend that we’re together. Sorry to tell him where to stick it when he started being a dick. Sorry you didn’t want to keep me around. I thought you’d– I don’t know. You weren’t ashamed of me before.” 

“But it’s not just me. You’re jumping at shadows. You can barely make decisions without looking at everyone around you first. And I’ve seen you command the troops before. You’re not crowd-shy. And you’ve barely reacted to the desert on the way here to this forsaken fort. So it can’t be that madness. I don’t understand. It’s like there’s a blade to your throat, but you fought the demons by the breach at Haven– you aren’t scared of a fight. I don’t understand why you’re cringing now.”

Krem’s brows were drawn together, his mouth downturned. His face was twisted like he was trying to smoothen out his features but couldn’t manage it as his feelings surged.

“And worse, I don’t understand why you just won’t talk to me about it.”

“I’m not ashamed of you.” Cullen said hoarsely.

Krem laughed, quiet and torn.

“Alright, Cullen.” He said, putting his shoulders flush against the back of his chair. He tilted his head up in a habitual move that carried none of his usual cockiness. “Then what are you ashamed of?”

Cullen flinched.

Krem shook his head faintly, eyes locked on Cullen’s face. He looked– Cullen wasn’t sure. Something between the softness of sadness and the hardness of fury. One expression threatening to take over the other in a moment.

“That’s the face.” Krem said, quiet. 

Cullen couldn’t bear the weight of his gaze. He looked down at his hands, which he discovered were wringing his shirt hem. 

Cullen knew that in peril, people fought, fled, or froze. For him, in this moment -- his breath burning in his chest—it was flight and freeze. The kind of terror that locks every muscle in your legs, tensing to escape a fear that can't be run from. A desperate unseen struggle like the beating of his heart against his ribs, leaving him equally scared of action bursting out of him as he was of keeping still.

“I don’t know.” Cullen said, knowing it for a lie as the words left him. “No, I–” 

He swallowed.

“I do.”

And… he did. Maker, but he did. He tried to reach for the Chant to steady himself. 

In Transfigurations, Andraste had cried out to the Maker before laying siege to Minrathous. Transfigurations 12:4. 

_ My Creator, judge me whole: _ _   
_ _ Find me well within Your grace. _ _   
_ _ Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. _ _   
_ _ Tell me I have sung to Your approval. _

Those were the words he needed to pray. He knew that.

He knew the verse, he knew it. He just– But the words wouldn’t come. Or– no. They came too readily. Speaking for him in his heart and mind and with his voice. And Krem couldn’t understand them. He never could understand everything that came with the verses. The years and lessons and pain and soul-deep relief in the certainty of them. Speaking with the Chant never reached Krem. And Cullen wanted to. Maker, he did. He needed to.

Cullen closed his eyes briefly. He spoke the only other words inside himself. Ones he struggled to pry free and put together in fragments, unused to the labor.

“When I ask the Maker what I should want, the Chant tells me that I want for nothing, for I have everything in the Maker. And I want to. I want to follow the will of the Maker. But the Chant, it’s… in the Order you must have nothing to want nothing. You must pursue nothing outside of the Order. Not in abstract or metaphor. But in everything. I was… good at it. Never perfect. But good. The things I wanted… I could deny myself. I never– I had what I should have. Nothing more. And I thought that since I left, I hadn’t chosen or changed anything. That I was the same man. But I have and I’m not. In the Order, I would never have been able to be with you. And if I was… I would be expected to refuse you if it seemed… inappropriate.”

Cullen held his hand up, afraid that Krem may interrupt him. He couldn’t bear to look at him and know or else his throat would close and the words would be lost.

“I’m not ashamed of you, Krem.” He murmured. “I’m ashamed of myself. For knowing that it’s right for me to want you and trust you and need you this way and.. being afraid of myself doing it anyway. Because I never would have been allowed to before, as a Templar. Because I know everything that I am expected to do if we had met only a few years ago”. 

“But I don’t believe the Maker would make us mirrors to each other and put us on a path to meet if He opposed. And He would not have had me taken from the Order if he wanted me to adhere to those vows and rules ahead of you. I know it. But I am still afraid. Because I have been wrong before. If you could have seen the man I was– the things I have done– you would be ashamed of me too. You would scarcely stand to look upon me. Every time I have chosen by myself I have been wrong. Only the rules of the Order and the Chant have kept me from becoming truly monstrous. I would have– you don’t know.”

Cullen breathed raggedly.

“Yet I’m not the Templar I was. I see the man Rylen expects to see in me. I remember being that man. And I’m not– now the Maker has put me on a path to decide for myself. And I see how far I’ve drifted. How far I’ve been called by Him to go. But I can’t trust myself, Krem. I can’t.”

He could tell as he spoke that he made very little sense. It wore away at his confidence as he grew steadily more stilted, unsure of how to tell Krem. To Cullen’s shame, he felt slick tears fall down his cheeks. He made a furious sound and wiped at them sloppily, trying to let anger chase away weeping, but he couldn’t manage it. He hated this. He hated his own weakness.

“I love you.” He confessed. “It’s not you, Krem. Andraste, it isn’t. I have never been so scared of anything as trusting myself. And I’m ashamed not to know how.”

He felt Krem settle beside him and it only took Krem’s hand on his shoulder to prompt Cullen to press himself against Krem’s chest, weeping openly. 

Everything was swept under the pure sensation of his body: the painful rasp of his breath, the agony of twisting his still injured back, the sting of his eyes as he pressed them together futilely to stop the flood of hot tears. He wept until his chest ached, until he could barely draw breath in excruciating stutters, and he could do no more than collapse in Krem’s arms in exhaustion. He hid his face against Krem’s shirt, too tired to care or pretend that it wasn’t damp with his tears and snot.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen breathed, repeating himself because he had nothing left to give. “I’m sorry.”

Krem’s fingers dragged over his scalp slowly, keeping to the rhythm he had been touching Cullen in since Cullen threw himself into his arms. Cullen kept his eyes closed and surrendered to the gentle scrape and pull like a man drifting on the tides. He let his shoulders slump, not having even realized that he had been drawn up tight and close, like a closed shell. 

“Krem.” He murmured.

In answer, Krem eased him onto his back and kissed him, uncaring of the ruddy mess Cullen had made of his face. 

Cullen curled his fingers around Krem’s, holding his hand close as they kissed. It was little more than a light press of their lips and the slow glide of Krem’s tongue, but Cullen felt like he was being pulled from an abyss.

“I’m sorry for crying.” Cullen said against his mouth.

“Don’t be–”

“Not because it was a spectacle.” Cullen insisted. “But. Because I have much to make right by you. And instead I made you stand by me instead. Again.”

Krem drew back so he could meet Cullen’s eye.

His brow was furrowed but he no longer looked hard, as though Cullen were trying to find skin through metal. Instead, he looked tired, his lips sagging and his face shadowed with the toll of everything they had done and been through since arriving at the Keep.

He looked… he looked young. Young and worn.

But not, Cullen thought with relief, angry. If anything he seemed lighter when he spoke.

“We’ll talk about it, Cullen.” Krem said.

Cullen drew Krem’s fingers to his lips, sealing the promise with a kiss.

Krem snorted and looked away, chewing on his lip. 

“Besides,” Krem said, his voice regaining a hint of its usual casual air. “Don’t think I forgot even after that spectacle that you’ve still got to take your potions. You’ve got to be well enough to hobble out onto the sands and bid me good luck on the assault. I expect you to bring your best handkerchief to tearfully wave me off in case I don’t come back.”

“Oh Maker, Krem.” Cullen laughed and he, too, felt lighter. “Alright, I will.”

* * *

Even with the construction planned out and overseen by Rylen and Lieutenant Tamsen there was plenty left to do to prepare the men for the siege on the Venatori fortress. Cullen made his way through the Keep with purpose, organizing men and munitions. The potions he’d taken had blunted the worst of the pain and begun to heal the deepest injuries to his thigh and back, but they had taken a heavy toll on his body in the process. At the healer’s request, he was back on his crutch, and had strict orders to remain so as long as he—and Cullen was so amused by the ire in the healer’s voice that he could quote his words—“insisted on being an idiot” by moving around so soon afterwards. He admittedly did find himself easily tired after ascending a single flight of steps, but having to stop frequently to rest was a price he would gladly pay to recover from what could have easily been a fatal wound if Corporal Fionn had not acted with speed.

As he made his rounds through the courtyards and battlements, more heads nodded in his direction and murmured “ser”s greeted him as he went than there had been when he had been hobbling from shadow to shadow only the day before. Cullen tried to take it with good humor. The Inquisition was not small enough for every soldier to know the Commander by sight, especially out of his now-iconic armor and regalia, so of course he had been able to pass without much notice while dressed as an invalid since his arrival. 

The less charitable part of him reminded him that if that were the case today—when he was still most certainly an invalid—then the sudden flood of recognition of who he was came from witnessing his bloody form being dragged out of the well the night prior. Of course they know who he was  _ now _ . Maker’s breath.

Still, Cullen took care to return the greetings as he was able and it wasn’t long before he found himself in his element, meeting with captains, lieutenants, and corporals to fill them in on their part of the assault and collecting their experience and feedback about fighting in the region. The conditions in the Western Approach were a far cry from the rainy forests of Ferelden or even the dry and windy sweeps of Kirkwall. The last thing that they needed was to be dragged into an extended battle and find themselves facing heat cramps, exhaustion, or a shortage of water, tripling their enemies in a short time as the sun rose high and higher in the sky. 

It was wearying work to organize the logistics of the assault and field every question and problem that came his way, but it was the kind of hard, honest labor that soothed the spirit. 

He also found that everywhere he went he was under covert, but noticeable watch.

Oh, it could have been a  _ coincidence _ that Cullen passed Dalish in the halls, saw Stitches hanging around the healers tent, and found Grim reading near the impromptu war table that Cullen had assembled by the battlements to manage the chaos of preparation, but Cullen knew better. The Chargers rarely split themselves so thoroughly for long. And, if Cullen had any doubt that they were purposefully keeping him in their sights and care, he had only turn to look behind him. Krem was by far the least subtle by choice, though he kept a fair distance as he tailed Cullen. When Cullen caught his eye Krem would raise an eyebrow and tilt his chin up as though daring Cullen to comment on his presence. Instead, Cullen smiled and tucked his head as he turned around. If anyone saw him they would think Cullen’s complexion was having a little trouble in the sun. That’s all. 

By early evening, Cullen was truly worn out. He took his time hobbling down the stairs, trying to look deliberate rather than let on how draining it was to maneuver the crutch down after getting his good leg down first. When Krem started in his direction he shook his head minutely. 

‘An idiot’ the healer had called him and—well, perhaps. But Cullen felt strong enough to make it by himself, just knowing that help was nearby if he needed it.

The first stars were overhead as he stepped into the lower courtyard, but—although Cullen longed to putter back to his room—there was one more thing he needed to see before he could retire. 

* * *

Cullen hadn’t dwelled on the well long before his ill-fated trip, but in the intervening time it had not been far from his thoughts. The well was a pathetic thing now, boarded over now with odds and ends of lumber from Rylen’s construction project and guarded by Corporal Fionn and a small team of men bearing torches to chase off any shadow.

“Any sign of trouble?” Cullen asked, maneuvering himself to stand abreast of the Corporal. 

“No, Ser,” Fionn replied readily. “If there’s anyone in the tunnels below then we’ve not heard them. But the cover has been undisturbed, ser, so there’s no chance any of the Vints got through since we took up watch.”

“Good work.” Cullen said, though at the mention of Tevinter his eyes immediately sought Krem in the crowd of soldiers around them. Fionn meant no ill will by it, he knew, but Cullen felt better when he picked out Krem’s stout form leaning against a crate of rations on the far side of the courtyard.

“You’ll inform me if there’s any change?” He asked, turning back to Fionn. “The Venatori have been bold since our arrival and the Keep’s mobilization can’t have been unnoticed by them. We may see anything from the return of their invisible infiltrator to a more direct strike if they can move their forces past our men on the sulfur pits. We don’t have their full measure, so we must be alert for anything.”

“Of course, Ser. My men are prepared to sound the alarm if we suspect that we’re under attack or if we have reason to believe that we’ve been bypassed in any way. However… there is one more thing. If I may, Ser.”

Fionn avoided Cullen’s gaze, choosing instead to keep his eyes fixed on the well when Cullen gave him the go-ahead to voice his thoughts. Cullen wasn’t sure what Fionn had to share, but he was curious.

“I understand that I haven’t given you much cause to believe me, Ser, as I have failed twice—in the Approach and within the tunnels—but I will do my best to protect the Inquisition and you, Ser.” Fionn declared. “It was my fault that you were hurt. I should have–”

Cullen patted him on the shoulder, cutting him off. 

“You haven’t failed me, Fionn.” He said. “I made my own choices. Both times. And I–”

He glanced at Krem again, taking in Krem’s casual confidence, the way no one escaped his notice as he subtly kept watch over Cullen without drawing any notice himself. Cullen’s heart seemed to stutter for a moment before beating faster. 

“I can’t let you take the responsibility for it. Or for the consequences that have come after.” He finished, quieter. 

Fionn swallowed, loud enough to hear.

“Thank you, Ser. I’m not sure if I quite understand, but I mean to say that, if it's acceptable to you, I'd like to redeem myself.”

He glanced at Cullen in askance, but Cullen was already shaking his head. He caught sight of Fionn's expression and hastened to clarify. Maker, he must be more tired than he thought.

“I apologize.” Cullen said. “I meant only that you don’t have anything to make up for. You are already doing what anyone could ask of you by guarding the well, doing your duty to keep the Inquisition safe.”

“Still, Ser. I'd like to be with the forward guard with the mages during the assault. If not for you, Ser, then… to keep an eye on my cousin.”

Maker’s breath. The mages. Cullen let out a slow breath. He'd nearly forgotten that his plan called for them to be involved before they had fallen under suspicion. But now with their names cleared it made sense to have them at the forefront of the Inquisition’s forces once more, to help beat back magic with magic should the Venatori attack. 

He had half a mind to be grateful that he would not be left alone in the Keep with them during the assault. But he knew that was cowardice talking. The mages would be a vital tool to take down the fortress and counter the working of Venatori’s own mages. And if he could not yet bring himself to let a mage cast on him, even benignly to accustom himself to the sensation, then at least he could do this other thing Krem asked of him: he could trust mages to fight alongside the Inquisition and practice his acceptance. And, in time, maybe he could stand beside them without terror in truth. For someone to seek them out… well, if Fionn was looking to prove himself a better man, then he’d proven himself the better man than Cullen already.

“Of course.” Cullen agreed, vaguely. “I'll have you placed at the front.”

He barely heard Fionn’s reply, managing a brief “carry on” before making his way to where Krem stood in the growing dark. He didn't even intend to, but with his promise to Krem fresh on his mind and with night closing in fast, he found no reason to stop himself when he realized where his feet were leading him.

Cullen drank in the sight of Krem as he approached. Everything from his relaxed lean against the crates to the loose fold of his arms. The way Krem seemed utterly at ease, but his eyes were always keen. The very fact that he was here when, by all fairness, he should be resting after his time in the Approach. Tending to himself instead of at Cullen’s back. As Cullen drew near Krem straightened up, brushing off the wind-blown sand that had settled into his clothes.

“You done with your rounds, Commander?” Krem asked. 

Cullen nodded, then paused, looking around before wetting his lip. Krem’s eyes followed the motion and he frowned slightly, leaning in to speak more quietly.

“You alright?” Krem murmured, a thread of concern in his voice. And then, even more quietly: “Is it your knee? Do you want me to help you get back to your room?”

Cullen’s heat clenched.  _ The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds _ , he thought, and to have such a man beside him, who thought of Cullen so readily and selflessly… that was no small deed. It made Cullen feel humbled and flushed with adoration and he found himself wetting his lips again.

“No, ah. That is. I think everything left can wait for tomorrow. I wanted to talk with you.”

“Talk with me.” Krem repeated.

The concern in his voice shifted to wariness and Cullen keenly wished that he could touch him to settle his worry. Except– had he not just touched Fionn and thought little of it? With less poise than he wanted he reached out to put his hand on Krem’s arm.

Krem’s eyebrows slowly rose as he looked between Cullen’s hand and face.

“Alright…” Krem said. “Let’s talk. But if you’re about to give me another mission I warn you, Cullen, I’m going to deck you right here in the middle of this courtyard.”

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh. His voice was raspy with how dry his throat was, but it loosened the stiffness in Krem’s shoulders. He wanted to chase it away entirely. And, Maker, perhaps he had an idea of how. It may also do a little to repay his debts to the rest of the Chargers as well. 

“No, ah. It’s just. Now that we know how the Venatori were gaining access to the Keep and we don’t have to be on the lookout for poisoners… it seems there’s a backlog of wine that I have access to on account of, well, being the Commander. I was wondering if the Chargers would like to help me work through some of them. I was thinking that if you invited them over and I grabbed went by the cellars to grab two bottles–”

“Two?” Krem cut in pityingly. “Oh, Cullen.”

Krem shook his head and shoved Cullen back lightly. He swept past Cullen, cutting a path across the courtyard for the kitchens. Cullen fell into step behind him as Krem took charge of the situation.

“I’m coming with you to the cellars. ‘Two bottles’, he says. For the seven of us. If I didn’t know you had all the guile of a catfish, I’d think you were joking. Come on, Cullen. Use your fancy title to get us into the cellars and we’ll see how many bottles you can carry– for a start! I’m picking them because I bet you don’t even know what’s good to drink.”

“Uh–”

“No, that wasn’t a question. Don’t answer that. We’ll do our best to educate you but I already know you’re a hopeless case.” 

Cullen fought a smile.

“Hopeless?” He questioned.

Krem glanced over his shoulder at Cullen and rolled his eyes. Silly as it was, it had Cullen's heart racing to see Krem so at ease with him.

“Beyond question.”


	7. Fill Your Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lonicera-caprifolium did an amazing illustration of a scene in this chapter and you can see it on tumblr on their blog under their "missivesfromghosts" tag :)

The worst thing about drinking with the Chargers was the noise. They were used to the dull roar of late night taverns and thought that speaking in anything less than a roar themselves was pointless, even in Cullen’s far quieter bedroom. Or, well, it had been far quieter before the Chargers had piled in and within moments were making themselves rowdy and comfortable on Cullen’s bed and in the chair and—Maker, get out of his chest of clothes!

“Too bad, Cullen.” Krem cooed, patting Cullen on the cheek before going back to uncorking bottle after bottle of wine. “It’s far too late to get rid of them now. And it was all your idea.”

And, Maker, it was, for all that he was suddenly rethinking it now.

Cullen didn’t have time to express the depths of his outrage at the treatment of his smalls—he saw Dalish throw them across the room!—because only moments later Stitches was pushing him to sit on the bed and take off his pants so he could get a look at how well the potions had healed him.

Rocky whistled at the sight of Cullen’s bare, pale legs and Cullen felt himself go crimson, but allowed Stitches to examine the scar and mutter under his breath.

“Hn.” Grim said and passed Cullen a drink which he took gratefully. 

“Thank you.” He murmured and Grim just grunted again and took off to sit beside Dalish on the chest. They clinked their own glasses and immediately began a contest to drain their glass faster than the other.

Cullen sighed and turned to look at Krem, just in time to see Skinner walk past Krem and make off with a whole bottle for herself without earning so much as a glance from Krem for it. 

What had Cullen been thinking?

Krem turned around and sauntered over to sit beside Cullen on the bed.

“What’s the news, Stitches?” He asked, tapping Cullen’s thigh and bringing the blush on Cullen’s cheeks back to life.

“Not as shabby as I’d expect.” Stitches said begrudgingly. “But he should’ve let it continue to heal naturally rather than giving out potions for everything. Can’t keep doing that forever.”

He then peered at Cullen and smacked him upside the head.

“Ow!” Cullen complained, reeling back in surprise. “Andraste’s flaming sword! What was that for?”

“The best medicine is not needing any, idiot. Next time, don’t get hit. Now I’m getting a drink before the rest of the idiots leave me dry. You can put on your pants… or not. Might save you two time later.” Stitches proclaimed before getting to his feet. 

Cullen covered his face with his hand as Krem slung a “oh, piss off!” at Stitches’ retreating back.

“Can you hold my drink for a moment?” Cullen asked. “I would very much like to put my pants back on now.” 

Krem snorted, but reached out to take it, watching Cullen awkwardly wiggle back into his pants and lace them. 

“Thanks.” Cullen said, accepting it back a moment later, and taking a deep drink. Wine wasn’t his drink of choice, though to be fair Krem was correct that he didn’t actually know what his drink of choice was. He tended to drink what was on the table when others were drinking. He made a face and took another sip. It helped blunt the pain and it wasn’t… awful.

“That bad, huh?” Krem said. “Don’t worry. You’ll care less on your next drink.”

The loud chatter in the room was abruptly interrupted by Dalish’ shriek. Cullen whipped around to see what had happened and– oh. Oh no.

Dalish was half under the bed, her legs kicking with excitement. Skinner grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her out, putting a foot on Dalish’s stomach to stop Dalish’s excited wiggles.

“What?” Skinner snapped.

“Look what I found!” Dalish cried, holding aloft–

“It’s Cullen’s favorite book!” Dalish finished gleefully, her fingers around Krem’s copy of  _ Hard in Hightown.  _ It must have slipped under the bed after Krem had dropped it the previous night. “He must be missing our nightly serenades, given that he’s too shy to read it by himself. We should help him finish it!” 

“Mercy.” Cullen pleaded.

“I think that’s a great idea.” Krem said, putting an iron-strong arm around Cullen and pinning him in place. “Don’t you Cullen? Say ‘thank you’ to the boys for their kindness.”

“Krem, I swear–”

“Oh, just go ahead, Dalish!” Rocky guffawed. “The Commander can thank us later. Krem, sit on his lap and make sure he doesn’t escape, uh, our gratitude for him hosting.”

Cullen made a sound of protest that was soundly ignored and he hastily took another drink of wine. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could fall asleep before they got around to another raunchy chapter. No… that. That was all of them, Cullen despaired.

It seemed that that second drink Krem promised would be sooner than Cullen anticipated. Again he wondered: what had he been thinking? He was sure that the thought hung plainly on his face because only a moment later Krem laughed, his mouth close to Cullen’s ear.

“Come now, don’t be rude.” He purred. “Dalish is doing her best voices.” 

And she was—squeaky little maiden’s voices, deep raspy toned mercenaries, and piping pompous officials all played with great enthusiasm to the pleasure of the rest of the Chargers who cheered, whistled, and raised drinks at the highlights of each bawdy paragraph.

It was obscene. It was– ridiculous! Embarrassing. But, degree by degree, Cullen’s shoulders dropped and his jaw lost the constant ache of tension that it had taken on since arriving. No one was looking at him anymore; they were absorbed in Dalish’s rendition or else were slapping each other’s hands to get at the next bottle of wine first. And they– they were comfortable. It was as though he were in Skyhold again, watching the lot take over the tavern with their shenanigans. All they were missing was The Iron Bull’s hulking form in the center, the man’s laugh shaking the floorboards.

In the midst of their revelry, it didn’t take long for Cullen, pressed up warm against Krem’s chest, to start laughing along with the rest of them.

He turned his head to watch Krem smile, broad and easy going and—for the first time since they had arrived in the Keep—truly relaxed, and knew it was worth his embarrassment and more to see Krem so happy. He kissed Krem's cheek and closed his eyes against the chaos of his room, content. In return, Krem squeezed his arm and pressed a kiss against Cullen's forehead. Cullen felt the brush of his lips as though it lasted an age instead of a fleeting moment. His breath came faster, a flush rising on his cheeks.

“Don't fall asleep yet,” Krem cautioned Cullen. “There's a really good part coming up.”

Cullen nodded.

“Alright.” He promised, settling against Krem to listen, his heart light. “I'll stay awake.”

* * *

The next morning Cullen woke under Krem’s familiar weight. Krem’s face was tucked against his neck, his breath warm and shallow against Cullen’s skin. The familiar rhythm nearly lulled Cullen back to sleep and it was all he could do to stay awake and open his eyes. Even then, he didn’t make to get up. Instead, he snuck a hand under Krem’s shirt to trace the dip of his back while he slowly came to full consciousness. 

He wasn’t hung over, thankfully. Parched, perhaps. But that wasn’t uncommon with the dryness of the Approach. His head wasn’t ringing and the longing for lyrium was no worse than it usually was, which was a mercy. All that was left was the faint ache of lying still and unmoving for so many hours which had blunted even the occasional pain from his healing injuries. As it was, he could lie in the near dark and let the weight of Krem’s body against his own fill his senses. It was a blessing that he had missed dearly since leaving Skyhold. Even the nights they had been able to spend together had been in close quarters, in sickness, or even with duties or travel to prepare for early the next morning. With a full day before the assault began, Cullen could sleepily take time to enjoy the touch of his lover’s body against his own.

Krem grumbled in his sleep and rocked his hips against Cullen’s healthy thigh, shifting and twisting slightly into a more comfortable position before settling again.

Cullen smiled, trailing his fingers part way up Krem’s spine before changing direction, dipping down to the waistband of Krem’s pants and, slowly, beneath them. The second time Cullen cupped Krem’s ass he felt Krem’s breathing change rhythm and it only took a few full lazy strokes of Krem’s back and ass for Krem to mouth Cullen’s neck, sucking and nipping the skin to draw a gasp from Cullen. Just like that, Cullen felt wide awake. 

Cullen’s hand dipped into Krem’s pants again and then—well, Cullen was glad he was so much taller and longer-reached than Krem. It meant that lying chest to chest with his lover he could trace the curve of Krem’s ass and slip his fingers further, brushing against his cunt, with ease.

“Fuck.” Krem hissed, canting back against the press of his fingers. He was sensitive enough that Cullen knew he must have been missing this as sorely as Cullen had.

Cullen turned his head to kiss Krem’s cheek. Krem chased his mouth, lips closing over Cullen’s, and a moment later Krem’s hand was in Cullen’s hair, pulling his head back so Krem could bite his throat again.

“Who said you could stop?” 

Cullen chuckled and the sound came out deep and throaty. He circled the tips of his fingers ever so faintly over Krem's clit and felt Krem breathe shakily against his neck.

“No one.” Cullen teased, running his fingers between Krem's folds again, heart beating quicker as they came away slick. Oh Andraste, he loved the feel of Krem. The anticipation humming through Krem's body as he tensed and relaxed and rocked faintly into the smallest motion. Even now, Krem was doing no more than idly canting his hips for a better angle and it set Cullen afire.

“Command me.” He murmured.

“Stroke me.” Krem ordered, unhesitatingly, in tones that had Cullen’s breath catch.

And so Cullen obeyed, rubbing Krem's clit again with the flat of his fingers in broad circling strokes before easing the pressure and brushing against him with only the faintest of touches. 

“Fuck.” Krem breathed as Cullen played with him. At times gentle, others bearing down on him. Gradually he eased into the rhythm that Krem preferred best when he wanted to linger on the edge of pleasure without tipping over— a lighter, faster touch that had Cullen's fingers skimming over his slick clit in fast, tight circles.

Then Cullen teased back the hood of Krem’s clit and the faintest brush of Cullen’s fingers had Krem jerking against his hand.

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ .” Krem squirmed, his hand clenching in Cullen's hair and his chest heaving against Cullen's with each labored breath. Then: “Fuck,  _ wait _ .”

Cullen stopped abruptly, pulling his hand free of Krem's pants. Krem didn't sound upset—if anything, he was breathless—but before he could ask if the touch had been too much, Krem was pulling away from him, sitting up to straddle Cullen's hips, careful to keep his weight above Cullen instead of settling against him. His hands worked quickly on the laces of his pants and while Cullen couldn't see his expression he did hear the rasp of desire in Krem's voice when he spoke.

“Stay down. Fuck. I want your mouth. Do you want that, Cullen?” 

“Yes.” Cullen begged. And then, because it gave him a thrill that ran straight to his cock, he followed with: “Yes, ser.”

He fumbled for Krem's hips and found them in the dark, helping Krem tug down his unlaced pants and smalls quickly. He felt Krem shift and struggle for a moment to get them off properly, but the dull sound of them hitting the stone floor was clear as a bell. Cullen's heart was hammering as he scooted carefully further down in the bed and the mattress dipped on either side of him as Krem settled over him. 

He could feel the heat and slickness between his own legs, the faint but maddening rub of his own smalls over his ready cock as he pressed his thighs together and  _ wanted.  _

Then Krem's hand was in his hair again and the softness of Krem's folds were against his lips and he made a hungry, desperate sound and grabbed Krem's hips to pull him closer. 

He couldn't think of anything but the way Krem's folds parted readily for his tongue. The way the heavy, thick taste of him filled Cullen's senses. He brushed his lips over Krem's swollen clit and sucked it into his mouth eagerly. 

If being by the Maker's side felt even half so good, let him never be parted…

Cullen felt lightheaded as he worked Krem's clit with his lips and tongue. To get the pressure he needed, Krem had to bear down on Cullen's mouth and Cullen felt so wonderfully pinned in place, the helpless sounds Krem was making and the way he clutched Cullen's hair—like a lifeline—had Cullen lost in a heady daze.

“Harder.” Krem begged, his voice tight. “Fuck, Cullen, you're so good. Harder, now. Give— fuck—”

His words failed him as his breath caught and all too soon Cullen could feel the twitch and spasm of his clit against his tongue as Krem came. If Krem didn't lift his body away a moment later, Cullen would have kept going. As it was, he leaned after Krem as he moved back, his lips chasing Krem's forlornly.

“Maker's balls.” Krem breathed. “Give me a minute to recover.”

His weight shifted and Cullen suspected that he was bracing himself against the headboard while he struggled to catch his breath.

Cullen closed his eyes and fought back a whimper. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to keep sucking Krem, to keep tasting him. To hold Krem down and work him up all over again, Krem’s helpless cries and clutching hands only heightening how badly Cullen himself wanted to be touched.

He turned his head and kissed Krem’s thigh with trembling lips. Beyond the soft, hot touch of Krem’s skin, Cullen could also feel the unyielding strength of Krem’s muscle. Just the thought of how powerful Krem’s body was made him dizzy. The way that every inch of him was always under control. How effortless it was for him to pin Cullen, to rock against him, to make him beg–

Desperate now, Cullen dragged his hands up Krem’s thighs and palmed his ass.

“Fuck.” Krem laughed, breathy and light. “No need to rush, Cullen. You’ll have me again.”

Cullen did make a sound this time, disappointed and needy all at once at the thought. 

“Alright, alright.” Krem ran his fingers through Cullen’s hair soothingly. “I’m going to light a candle, Cullen. I want you to get undressed for me.”

It was such a relief for Cullen to obey. He fumbled with his pants as the mattress dipped and swayed as Krem left the bed. He didn’t bother to pull his pants and smalls off separately, tugging them down together roughly and dumping them on the floor. It sent a pang of pain through his leg to move so abruptly, but he pushed it aside. He knew what a healing injury felt like—when his limbs could be pressed further, shaky and pained, but fine—and when an injury would split apart again with rough use. He’d been on the cusp of both for the last few days but the potions had tipped him into wellness. He could do this. He  _ wanted _ to do this.

He sat up and his shirt followed the way of his pants, leaving him sweaty, naked, and aching in the dark. If it weren’t for the sound of Krem lighting the candle and the sudden rush of light, he would have felt vulnerable.

Then his eyes met Krem’s in the light of the candle and he truly felt completely laid bare. Krem was standing not even an arm’s length away, leaning over the bedside table where he’d lit one of the candles Cullen had been reading by not long ago. The room was so dark that the meagre light threw Krem into stark relief—deep shadows and sharp edges and absolutely piercing eyes. It didn’t matter that he was half naked, his hair in disarray, and his shirt damp with sweat. Cullen couldn’t look away. 

Krem smirked.

Cullen felt himself flush, his skin hot from his face to his thighs. He reached for Krem and caught the hem of his shirt, looking at Krem questioningly. He felt too thick-tongued and needy to speak.

Gently, Krem caught Cullen’s hand and brought it to his lips. He stepped closer and oh– oh– slipped Cullen’s fingers into his mouth and sucked with the filthiest, wettest, sound. Cullen whimpered.

Krem drew back, letting Cullen’s fingers sit on his lips for just a moment, before he let go of Cullen’s wrist entirely.

“Sit facing me, Cullen.” Krem said. “Legs off the bed.”

Cullen felt himself move as though he was in a trance. Krem caught his hips and gently tugged him forward until his ass was nearly off the bed and Cullen had to lean back and brace himself on his arms to keep from sliding off. Once Krem had Cullen positioned as he wanted, he knelt.

_ Oh _ , Cullen swallowed.

Oh.

Krem may have been on his knees between Cullen’s legs, but Cullen felt utterly under his sway as Krem gave Cullen a slow, once-over. His gaze lingered between Cullen’s legs at his thick, blond curls, and the plain desire on his face stole Cullen’s breath. 

Then Krem framed Cullen’s cunt with his hands, nudging his thighs further apart, and ran his thumbs over Cullen’s folds. A squeak escaped Cullen and he nearly jerked towards Krem. It was mortifying, but even a touch as gentle as that had him aching. 

“You,” Krem drawled, “are gorgeous. I could look at you all day.”

He leaned forward and licked Cullen’s cock in a slow, flat stroke of his tongue. Cullen nearly sprang from the bed in ecstasy.

“Shh. Keep your hips on the bed.” Krem directed. “Try not to move if you can.”

Cullen didn’t know if he could. It was always a shock how soft and hot Krem’s mouth was against him. A shock at how sensitive his own body could be when he was first being touched. 

“Krem.” He begged, though he didn’t know for what. He wasn’t sure he could wait—nor was he sure he would survive another lap of Krem’s tongue.

“I’ve got you. Just stay with me, Cullen.”

Maker, Cullen would try.

Then Krem dipped his face between Cullen’s thighs again and Cullen lost all sense of rational thought.

Cullen had been dimly aware in the past that—after the magic that helped him transform his body to look more masculine had begun to work—his cock had grown from its original size somewhat, but it was still small, only slightly bigger than Krem’s clit. It was thicker, though, and unlike Krem’s clit it had far less protection. Rather than a hood covering the most sensitive part of his cock, the head of his cock was bared. All changes from the magic. He hadn’t ever thought much of them until Krem slept with him for the first time and he realized how utterly and completely he could be undone with a simple touch.

And now, he was undone all over again. Krem could take Cullen entirely into his mouth and circle his tongue over Cullen’s cock with ease. It was intense. It was maddening. Cullen’s hips twisted and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to catch Krem between his legs and keep him there or if he was trying to pull away.

Krem’s hands slid to Cullen’s hips instead and, suddenly, Cullen was pinned to the bed by Krem’s strength. Mortifyingly, he could feel his cunt respond immediately. He was aching and so slick that he could see that Krem’s face was drenched with Cullen’s wetness just from moving between his thighs. But all he wanted was more.

Krem gave it to him with enthusiasm, his tongue flicking over Cullen’s cock rapidly, causing Cullen to cry out and dig his own fingers into the sheets helplessly. Through every twist and jerk of Cullen’s hips, Krem kept him pinned in place as though Cullen’s writhing barely caught his notice.

“Oh, Maker, oh. Please.” Cullen begged, barely aware of the words crossing his lips.

He could feel the build of heat behind his cock, intense and sudden. Oh Maker, it was too soon, too soon—but then his breath was hitching and he was coming, Krem’s mouth oh-so perfect around him as he shuddered through it. Only when Cullen sank back onto the bed, exhausted, did Krem pull off and look up at him through his eyelashes.

“You alright?” Krem purred.

Cullen laughed, breathy and happy. He was more than alright. Every part of his body was thrumming happily and he couldn’t keep a grin off his face.

“Yes.”

“Mmm, good.” Krem said and leaned in to lap at Cullen’s cock.

Cullen’s breath caught and his eyes widened. He didn’t wind down as easily as Krem did after coming. His cunt was still throbbing and even the softest touch of Krem’s tongue shot pleasure through him that was so intense it was almost pain. He felt dizzy with want and his breath escaped him in a whimper. 

Krem hummed in reply and kept working him, slow and soft and maddeningly glorious.

“Maker,” Cullen murmured, twisting, canting up toward Krem’s mouth.

Krem allowed it, his hands still on Cullen’s hips, letting him lift just a little before pressing Cullen back down. He kept letting Cullen make those shallow thrusts against his mouth and the rhythm of it was perfect. Cullen’s eyes fluttered shut and he reached a hand between his legs desperately, tangling in Krem’s hair. 

“Oh, please.” He begged.

But Krem didn’t change his pace. 

Instead he drove Cullen mad with gentleness, soft strokes that would do little more than tease if Cullen didn’t feel raw with pleasure already. It was too much and too little all at once and Cullen felt like he was drifting outside of himself, deep in a haze of pleasure that knew no end.

When he came a second time it was nearly a surprise, washing over him in a shudder that left him boneless and wrung out on the bed.

He barely realized that Krem had stood up until Krem was swinging Cullen’s legs back onto the bed carefully and rolling him over to make space on the side of the bed. Cullen moved loosely, letting Krem tuck him back into bed. 

Krem slipped into bed behind him and wrapped an arm around Cullen’s waist gently and Cullen sighed happily, pressing back against him until their skin barely touched and letting Krem’s heat sink into him. It was too much with how hot and sweaty Cullen already was, but he wouldn’t have moved Krem for the world.

“Get some more sleep, Cullen.” Krem murmured, his lips brushing Cullen’s neck. His breath tickled and Cullen couldn’t help but wriggle against him, but Krem’s embrace was familiar and perfect and he was settling again almost immediately.

He’d just close his eyes for a moment, Cullen decided. Then he’d get up.

Just a moment.

* * *

Cullen spent the day making his rounds again, directed the men through the last preparations. He started on the lower courtyard and slowly wound his way up through the levels of the Keep, arriving at the topmost circle after noon. Thankfully, the Keep was still strung with large bolts of fabric that kept the majority of the courtyard from being exposed to the sun, but the heat was heavy and dry in the air nonetheless. 

Cullen leaned against his command table and pretended it was just to get a better view of the maps and papers spread out before him and not because he was sweating hard and dizzy enough to see black spots framing his vision.

“There’s a chair.”

Cullen looked up sharply before he realized that the voice was familiar and found himself meeting Rylen’s eye.

It took him a moment to respond. He’d thought Rylen would be still be in the desert or in his office. Anywhere that Cullen was not.

Yet here he was.

Cullen nodded belatedly and reached around for the chair before sinking into it with relief. If he was to hear whatever recrimination that was important enough for Rylen to break his self-imposed distance, he might as well be comfortable. During his rounds of the Keep, Cullen hadn’t wanted to sit and show weakness in front of the men, but Rylen knew him too well to be fooled by the facade he had been upkeeping, so standing was pointless.

Just being off his feet for a moment let him realize how much the sun had taken out of him. Dots in vision swam like tadpoles and he blinked a few times to clear them before giving up and peering up at Rylen.

Rylen was as armored as Cullen currently wished he was and was dressed head to toe for the desert sun and winds. Undoubtedly, he’d been out on the sands since morning, overseeing the bridge, but the thought only brought a twinge of guilt to Cullen rather than the flood he’d expected for spending his own morning in bed with his lover while others toiled to do the work that must be done.

“How is the construction on the bridge faring?” Cullen asked.

“Better than expected.” Rylen said. “We’ll have most of it finished by evening.”

Judging by the way Rylen smiled tightly, Cullen knew he must look as impressed as he felt about the news. Even after seeing Rylen’s work in Kirkwall after the Chantry exploded, it always surprised him that Rylen could not only promise a miracle in construction, but deliver every time. He found himself smiling back and—unexpectedly—he could see Rylen’s bearing softening ever so slightly. Cullen leaned towards him, chasing the first sign of kindness Rylen had given him since the night he left Cullen’s room.

“And you’re sure the men will be well enough to fight tomorrow after the pace they’ve been working?” Cullen wondered.

“Of course.” Rylen shrugged. “I’ve been keeping them on short shifts with plenty of water. No one’s been working in the worst heat of the day. If anything it’s done them good to burn off some energy.”

Cullen looked at him dubiously, trying to imagine being grateful to be in the heat doing hard labor.

“If you say so.” He said, skeptically.

Rather than answer him directly, Rylen pulled the waterskin from his belt and tossed it at Cullen. 

“Drink something.” He ordered. “You’ll feel better.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, but unfastened the top and took a sip.

Or that’s what he meant to do. But instead of just wetting his mouth as he planned, he found himself swallowing down nearly half of the skin desperately. The first touch of water hitting his dry throat was nearly painful and by the time he pulled back, breathing hard, he was surprised by the urgency that overtook him.

“Keep the rest.” Rylen advised. “And try finish one every hour or so if you can. Didn’t you drink enough when you were crossing the Approach?”

Cullen had. But the truth was that he often forgot to eat or drink while he was occupied. Not when he was training or putting his body to work, but when he was planning. Time slipped away and he often found himself on trembling legs, the sky outside gone dark around him while possibilities and strategies took form under his pen.

He shrugged, rueful.

“I did. But thank you. I’ll keep it filled and on hand.”

The conversation lapsed and Cullen lifted the skin to his lips again, forcing himself to take small sips and trying to reign in the desire to drain the rest.

It wasn’t the comfortable silence that Cullen was used to. Even turning his eyes towards the maps, he could feel all of his attention was still fixed on Rylen. There was so much unsaid that hung between them and even if Cullen couldn’t feel it pressing down on him until he couldn’t breathe, it was still there. 

“Rylen.” He murmured, running his hand over the back of his neck. He was slick with sweat and the gesture ended up making him feel more disgusted than relieved.

Then he wasn’t sure what to say after that.

What was there even to say? Was Rylen still holding onto the grudge against Krem? Of course he was. Will he be willing to put it aside to carry out the assault on the Venatori? Cullen knew he would. Rylen was a consummate Templar. He knew how to put what was necessary before the personal. And even if Rylen thought that they were still the same thing—that Krem was somehow involved—he wouldn’t act against Cullen’s orders, surely.

Cullen wasn’t going to make any apology for that. Nor would Rylen easily accept one, Cullen suspected. The hurt he’d shown when he realized that Cullen had lied to him had revealed how deeply he’d trusted Cullen.

Yet Rylen had still chosen to approach Cullen, rather than avoid him, and had given him the waterskin. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it could be, Cullen thought. It could be with time.

The silence lingered.

Sighing, Rylen stepped up to fill the quiet that Cullen was reticent to break. 

“Let’s speak in my office?” He suggested. “You can catch me up on the preparations.”

Cullen nodded, relieved that Rylen found safer ground for them to discuss, and rose to his feet. Rylen was already gathering the papers under one arm and Cullen took a moment to search out Krem’s face in the crowd, seeing him not forty feet away. Krem was frowning, but he didn’t seem angry or concerned so much as ready, waiting to see if Cullen needed him.

Krem raised a hand in a gesture that could mean anything and Cullen shook his head

For all the awkwardness between him and Rylen, he trusted Rylen to guard him in the Keep if necessary. And having Krem escort him to Rylen’s office would only intensify the conflict between them, which would be a distraction that none of them needed on the eve of battle. It was best if he went alone, for now.

“Cullen?” Rylen asked, his voice tense, but unfailingly polite.

“Yes, let’s go.”

* * *

The morning of the assault came all too fast. The searing light of dawn illuminated the Approach so brightly that it stung the eyes, even though the sun itself wasn’t yet visible over the rocky cliffs that hid the Venatori fortress.

It was the first day that Cullen had felt the full sting of the blistering heat of the desert to this extent since his rather ungraceful arrival at Griffon Wing Fortress. He felt slicked with sweat under his clothes, even though it was scarcely past first light, and even while he was standing beneath the billowing cloth of the station Rylen had set up to oversee the final construction of the bridge. They’d discussed whether or not to wait for nightfall to send the men across the sulfur pits and up the ridge to the Venatori holdout. Not because of a desire for secrecy—moving a few dozen men across open ground to begin an attack the Venatori must have been anticipating for the last few days was hardly something that could be begun with stealth—but to spare the soldiers the heat. If even just standing beneath the sun wore away at the soldiers then fighting in full plate would be a nightmare.

But in the end Cullen had insisted on an assault in the day-time. If they were going to storm a stronghold of corrupt Tevinter mages then it would be with the light of the Maker overhead exposing any horrors that might be summoned. After that, dawn was the only reasonable option, though Cullen was regretting it now. It was clear even in these early hours that the day would be unnaturally scorching and unforgivable.

“The men are ready to move across the bridge.” Tamsen reported. 

She stood on Rylen’s other side, hands on her belt, eyes fixed unforgivingly on the sulfur pits ahead of them. Cullen could be imagining it, but somehow he doubted that it was a coincidence that it put Dalish and Grim in her line of sight at all times. Rylen had been less than pleased when Cullen had insisted that they remain behind with him during the assault, but had submitted to Cullen’s argument that they could hardly afford members of the strike team collapsing during the assault because they couldn’t bear the heat. Tamsen, no doubt, had been instructed to keep an eye on them. But Cullen was willing to endure that given the other compromises he and Rylen had reached.

Cullen looked over the map one last time, taking comfort in the knowledge that he’d long since memorized what they knew of the area and that he had prepared the men as best he could.

“We should give the order to move out.” Cullen turned to Rylen, making a small gesture of deferment to indicate that he really meant that by ‘we’ he had meant that Rylen should.

It wasn’t just courtesy. Rylen had spent months with the men, transforming raw recruits and jaded soldiers into a formidable force for the Inquisition. They knew him best. They trusted his word. And that trust would often bolster men into fighting beyond what they knew they were capable of. 

But Rylen just shook his head.

“They’d rather hear from the Commander,” He said.

“The injured Commander who will hide in the safety of the Keep while they lay down their lives?” Cullen couldn’t help but ask, unintended bitterness on his lips.

“The Commander who is still standing after the Venatori made multiple attempts on his life.” Rylen said sharply. “Who better to show them what we can overcome?”

Cullen sighed, chastened, and stepped out of the shade of the station and across the hard-packed earth to address the assembled men rather than address Rylen directly.

He wasn’t shy of crowds. Perhaps he should have been, but it felt different addressing a mass than a single person. Less intimidating. For all that he could see individual faces among the ranks, it didn’t make it feel like he was pinned under anyone’s gaze. 

There was a low murmur in the ranks and then silence as they realized the Commander was about to speak. The familiar sight of the men in neat rows, sunlight gleaming on their armor, and the banners of the Inquisition lifted high behind them was nearly surreal against the bright and unfamiliar desert.

Cullen took a breath.

“Inquisition,” He began, lifting his voice to be heard over the wind’s roar across the sweeps of rock and sand. “We stand here on the edge of the Abyssal Rift, where the Grey Wardens fought back the darkspawn hoards during the Second Blight. They fought valiantly with no hope that they would succeed. But succeed they did.”

Cullen let his gaze sweep over the men, squinting in the harsh light.

“Today, we also face our enemy on these sands. But our enemy is no undead horror, no mindless hoard. It is the folly of men. Men whose hubris brought them south to our lands, to our people. Men who threaten those who cannot defend themselves but cower from those who can!” Cullen pointed at the rocky crags ahead of them. “So we will meet them where they cower. We will show them that we will bow to no Magister, no force of subjugation. We fight for freedom!”

Cullen paused, dropping his voice low, letting it rise again gradually as he went, but losing none of the intensity he had built up to.

“Like the Grey Wardens who stood here before us, we fight with justice at our backs, our cause no less great, and our retribution no less absolute! Are you with me, Inquisition?”

Standing on an outcrop of rock, Cullen looked at the faces turned his way, basking in the clamor of approval from the men.

“Will you fight?” He demanded, the men roaring in agreement almost immediately. “Then prepare to march!”

He turned, the troops still thundering behind him, and faced Rylen. Rylen nodded without Cullen having to say a word and. together, Cullen moved to the fore of the column, Rylen at his side.

“Eyes open, Cullen. The Venatori have targeted you specifically. I’ve had my men watching the bridge nonstop to avoid tampering by any Venatori agents, but we can’t rule out the possibility. Nor can we rule out an attack on the Keep with the bulk of the forces on the move.” Rylen said in low tones as they walked. To any eye on them, Rylen would appear as firm and resolute as always, but Cullen could hear the tension in his voice.

“We never can. We’ll just have to take them straight on and deal with their traps as they come.”

Rylen gave him a long, inscrutable look and lay a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. After a brief squeeze he turned to nod at Lieutenant Tamsen and said “Keep him safe” before striding off to the front of the column where the rest of the Chargers had gathered.

Cullen could see Krem at the fore, maul resting beside him, but at the distance he couldn’t see if Krem’s eyes met his own. He hesitated, his tongue tracing the dry cracks of his lip. Then he raised a hand much in the way that a child might raise a bucket at a well: in sad fits and starts, stuttering to a halt at the barest acceptable height before giving it a wave. 

There was a moment where his heart beat rapidly, a drum beat that only served to accentuate the chatter and footfalls of a hundred men in armor rather than blot it out, and then Krem raised his hand as well. 

Cullen’s breath caught even as he tried to draw it in slowly, evenly. Then, hiding a smile against his tabard, he watched until Krem was lost among the bodies of soldiers on the move. The glare of the sun and the waver of heat from the sand made the column look like a glistening, molten silver line against the desert. Squinting, he tried to follow their progress against the pits, but had to give up before long, his eyes stinging and spots dancing in his vision. 

_ Good luck _ , he thought.

“Hm.” Grim grunted, stepping close to Cullen and crossing his arms. Dalish wasn’t far behind.

“Exactly. Come on, Commander. Let’s get you back inside.” She suggested, “Krem’ll have our heads if we let you stand out here on that leg for long.”

“That’s a sound suggestion.” Tamsen agreed. “If you need assistance– ”

“Ah, no. That’ll be alright, Lieutenant.” Cullen said, turning down the offer before something truly embarrassing could be suggested—like being carried. “Let’s head back to the Keep. We should see that the healers have finished their own preparations for Rylen’s return.”

Cullen fancied he could hear the beat of soldiers’ footsteps even after they reached the solid walls of the Keep.

* * *

Cullen was not patient when other men were fighting his battles. 

This was no surprise to him—he had planned countless assaults for the Inquisition since they began and had accompanied very few beyond the hectic, early days when the Breach first opened and Corypheus had routed them from Haven—and yet. And yet during those times he had other matters to occupy himself. Reports to read. Meetings with the other advisors. Other preparations to make. 

Here, on the edge of the Abyss, the only real matter to contemplate was the assault on the Venatori stronghold.

It lingered on his mind like lyrium. The way the time crawled by and the way his skin crawled with it. It wasn’t that he imagined anything in specific, but he thrummed with a restless, unfocused energy. He knew he needed to fill his thoughts. To be useful, to make sure everything was in order.

“Do you think he’s ready to call it quits?” Dalish whispered, voice pitched to carry. 

“Hm.”

“I know, it’s almost like he’s purposefully being an idiot.”

“Hilarious.” Cullen breathed, leaning against the wall in the cool interior of the Keep. To his shame, Tamsen hovered at his side, ready to support the rest of him should he stumble. “I can hear you, as you well know.”

“Hm.”

“And,” Dalish breezed on, undeterred, “the healers’ tents I could understand. As well as checking with the woman in charge of patrol while the army’s out. But then, you see, what I don’t understand, are all of those steps to the top of the battlements. It’s not like seeing the men pass through the cliffs was particularly necessary, was it?”

“Hm.”

“I have a Keep to oversee!” Cullen protested. “And I’ll be fine after I catch my breath. Maker, are you mercenaries or nursemaids?”

“Oh, nursemaids, definitely. Why else would we be hearing so much wailing, eh, Grim?”

“Hm.”

Cullen gave them both a quelling look. 

“Commander...” Tamsen murmured, drawing his attention. “Perhaps you could catch your breath in the Knight-Captain’s office? The men know to bring reports there, so you’ll know immediately if something happens.”

Cullen reached for a denial before admitting that, at this point, he was simply being contrary. 

“Fine,” He allowed, “let’s head there.”

If he made a show of purposefully straightening himself and walking as normally as his thigh allowed, then it was an allowable indulgence. Especially given Dalish’s sarcastic slow claps of celebration when he gave in. 

“I regret your presence.” He muttered.

“Don’t be like that. I’m great company! Krem also gave me your book so– ”

Cullen whirled around, ears flushing red.

“Dalish!”

“Ser, please...” Tamsen managed, lips pressed together and wobbling up and down at the corners as she fought both smiling and a more severe, professional expression.

“Maker.” Cullen muttered, pressing on, determined to keep ahead of any sideways comments.

By the time they reached Rylen’s office he was more than grateful to sink into Rylen’s chair. Tamsen fluttered about nearby before sheepishly placing a stool nearby—“for your leg, ser”—and taking a position by the wall.

Despite having never been to his office, Dalish and Grim were far more at ease with making themselves at home. Dalish threw herself into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk and Grim wandered over to Rylen’s bookshelf. It was unclear to Cullen if he was actually reading any of the titles or just… eyeing them. He resolved not to investigate in case it caused Dalish to remember her earlier threat of a certain other book.

“Ser?” Tamsen said, catching his attention. “What are you taking for pain? I mean, I assume that…”

She trailed off.

“Wine.” Dalish was quick to add. Her fingers flitted through Rylen’s keepsakes with glee until he put his hand over hers. She merely grinned in response. Cullen suspected she was doing something with her other hand, but couldn’t prove it.

“And it doesn’t have to be  _ good _ wine,” She added. “Cullen can get trashed on the watered down swill just fine.”

“Thank you, Dalish.” Cullen said curtly.

“You’re welcome.”

Cullen sighed and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his leg on the stool and massaging his temples. 

“I’ll get you a glass, ser.” Tamsen said, loyally saying nothing about the two mercenaries making themselves quite at ease in Rylen’s office. Her eyes, however, betrayed her unease.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Cullen said, dismissing her in a far more civil tone than he’d used on Dalish only a moment earlier.

He took the opportunity to swat Dalish’s hand as she reached for a small, rough sculpture. 

“What’s this?” She asked, pressing her face close to it instead, nose crinkling.

“A holy symbol.” Cullen said. Or, at least, it was his and Rylen’s best guess. “There’s a Chantry trail in the area. Some of the men brought back artifacts buried around some of the markers.” 

“It looks…” Dalish paused, considering her words, and Cullen felt a sudden dread about  _ Dalish _ trying to be diplomatic.

“Er, Grim, how would you describe this?”

Grim looked over his shoulder at the figure Dalish was eyeing. And paused.

After a moment he made a suspiciously curvy gesture with his hands at hip height.

“Yeah,” Dalish said, thinking that over. “Yeah, I thought so too, see.”

She gave Cullen a considering look. 

“A statue of Andraste, you think?”

Cullen begged the Maker for patience.

“One can assume.” He allowed.

“Mm.” Dalish said, easing back into her own chair. One of her eyebrows was raised as she continued to eye the figure speculatively. “Andraste must have been really really– ”

“When Krem said that you both should stay behind to be spared the heat,” Cullen cut her off, “I didn’t think he meant for you both to hide from the sun in my shadow.”

Grim rolled his shoulder in a lazy shrug before turning back to the bookshelf.

“We’re not hiding in your shadow!” Dalish said, pressing her hand to her chest. “You’re going to be hiding in ours. You really think Krem’s letting  _ you _ take the lead?”

“Dalish.”

She held up a finger.

“You got shot.”

“ _ Accidentally _ .”

A second finger joined the first.

“Nearly poisoned.”

“ _ Nearly _ is not– ”

A third.

“Attacked on the battlements.”

“Yes, but– ”

A fourth.

“Stabbed in a well. You know what we call that?”

“Resilience?” Cullen said sarcastically. “Fighting in a war?”

“We call that begging for another try.”

Dalish extended all five of her fingers and gave him a cheeky wave.

“Bye bye, Commander.” 

Cullen was not a man who rolled his eyes and he was not about to start now.

“Thank you, Dalish, for your vouch of confidence in my abilities.”

“I mean, there’s got to be a good reason Krem sticks around, so I figured…”

She trailed off with a gleeful smile and leaned forward again. Then pouted.

“You usually turn red.” She complained.

“Maybe I’m getting accustomed.” He muttered, allowing himself to slouch in Rylen’s chair and placing a hand over his eyes. He’d heard Cassandra say once that when one was done with other people’s nonsense the best way to stay uninvolved in more would be to not see it. 

“Hmph.”

Whether that was Dalish or Grim, Cullen couldn’t tell, but he could hear the creak of wood that meant that Dalish must have stood. 

“I’ll be back.” She said airily, “Don’t wander off. Grim? He tries to leave and you can save the shem some time and break his leg for him before he gets around to doing it himself.”

Cullen refused to dignify that with an answer or to look up when he heard the door open and click closed behind her. 

“Grim?” He called out after he was sure she’d left. He had some measure of self preservation, despite what others thought.

“Hm?”

“You’re both pests.”

Grim chose not to dignify that remark with a response in turn. Or not one that Cullen could hear. He folded his arms, tucking his hands against his body, and found it surprisingly easy to be comfortable in the chair. 

Without Dalish to insinuate salacious things about the figurine or to distract him with other nonsensical affairs, Cullen found his mind drifting to less pleasant matters. He knew that the army was over the cliffs and out of sight by now with no way to know how they fared on their assault. Somewhere in the desert, Rylen and Krem were finding out what kind of force the Venatori had stationed. What traps they kept beneath the sand and in the ruins that dotted the barren landscape. What magical horrors they had at their beck and call. They could be trapped, unable to move, unable to–

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Cullen jolted, trying to blink out of the deep haze of sleep, his heart beating rapidly against the bars of his ribs. The stone ceiling swam above and to the left and Cullen realized he was listing out of his chair. Clutching the arm rest, he fought back the reflexive nausea that rose in the back of his throat. 

“Sorry, Commander.” A woman apologized, drawing back. 

A woman. What– Oh. Tamsen had returned.

Cullen pulled on a smile that even he could feel was thin.

“No apologies necessary. I seem to have drifted off.” 

He wished he hadn’t. The heavy pull of sleep was still upon him and he felt overly hot, dried out, and overall like his flesh hung from his bones like in a sheet of aching. He’d never been one to wake refreshed from a nap. To no surprise, given his luck, his thigh also let its displeasure at his rough awakening be known in stinging bursts.

Swallowing a few times to wet his mouth, Cullen hazily took stock of the room. 

Dalish was still gone, it seemed, and Grim had sunk into her chair in her absence. He held a cup of wine in his hands, which he drank from liberally, giving Cullen a flat and silent look that still managed to judge him for his unexpected nap. 

By Cullen’s side, Tamsen had taken up the bottle and was pouring a cup that she held out to Cullen.

He murmured his thanks, lifting it to his mouth and drinking deeply to wash out the awful taste that lingered there like musty sheets. 

Cullen made a face, but hid it under the brim of the cup. It seemed that either Griffon Wing Keep had run short on drinkable wine or Tamsen had taken Dalish’s suggestion and offered Cullen the poorest bottle in stock. Cullen wouldn’t have been surprised if she had; he’d hardly endeared himself to Rylen of late and Tamsen was Rylen’s man through and through. He certainly could endure worse than a bitter glass, though, and perhaps deserved it. At the very least, it would dull the pain in his thigh and, with any luck, the distraction of his thoughts.

Feeling slightly cramped from lying in place for so long, Cullen tenderly lowered his foot to the floor with a wince.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant.” He said, offering her the stool now that it was free. Belatedly, he realized that there hadn’t been enough seats in Rylen’s office for them before and he felt somewhat like a heel for not seeing it sooner. “Do you want wine as well?”

Tamsen rubbed her nose, sinking onto the stool beside him. 

“Better not, ser,” She said. “I’m on duty and I think it’d be, well…”

Fair enough, he thought, and tipped his cup back again, doing his best to drain it quickly. Tamsen faithfully topped up the cup when he started being able to see the bottom, doing the same for Grim.

“My apologies if the wine is warm,” Tamsen explained, “But we thought it best to let you rest a while before waking you.”

Cullen let his gaze stray but kept his thoughts disciplined. He didn’t need to know or ask if his dreams had troubled his body as much as they had his mind. He was sure that if they had it’d be one more shame he was certain he didn’t need to bear.

“Hm.” Grim agreed, listing slightly in his chair. A quick glance at the bottle lead Cullen to believe that Grim had been making headway on the bottle while Cullen had been resting, though there was still plenty left. Perhaps Tamsen had brought more than one bottle? News of Cullen and Krem raiding the wine racks had probably spread and Cullen flushed a little at the thought that he might be considered, well, a  _ lush.  _

He supposed that may, however, be an inevitable reputation one gained while spending time with the Chargers.

Or, Cullen allowed, wincing at the omnipresent ache in his thigh, it may be sympathy. 

He drank again, deeply, hoping to wash the pain down as fast as possible and to wake up faster, pulling through on the other side of his unfortunate nap somewhat more coherent and focused. Then he set the cup down, promising himself that he’d wait before taking more. To see if his leg would settle first.

“Has there been any news–?”

“Not yet, Commander.” Tamsen replied.

Cullen sighed, settling back into the chair. The stress of waiting must be weighing on him, for he felt even more tired than he had upon waking. 

“With any luck, this will be the last outpost of Venatori in this Maker-forsaken desert,” Cullen mumbled. “Except for Adamant, that is.”

“Do you…” 

Cullen waited a moment for Tamsen to continue before making a soft “hm?” to prompt her.

She looked pensive, bent towards him on her stool, wine bottle in one hand and the other clenching against her pant leg.

“After Adamant and all this,” She began, “Do you think everything will go back to the way it was? For all of us? Like nothing ever happened?”

“Well,” Cullen said, a little thrown by the change in subject. It took him a long moment to gather his thoughts and figure out where to even begin. “I… don’t know. Andraste willing, yes. Empress Celene and her cousin are at each other’s throats in Orlais because of all of this. Kirkwall… Kirkwall will need time to recover still from… from before Corypheus, but tensions certainly haven’t fallen. Ferelden has been ravaged. We don’t need another war. Especially not with Tevinter so keen to watch all our throats.”

“And the mages?”

Cullen’s thoughts swam.

“The mages?”

“Yes,” Tamsen said, frowning. “Are they to go back to the circles? After fighting for freedom against the Vints...?”

Cullen… hadn’t thought on it, truth be told. Corypheus’ attack on Haven had been so sudden and so absolute that Cullen still woke in a terror some nights, sweat running down his back and his limbs shaking. Corypheus was a monster, his touch felt on every country in the South and his aims so bestial and revolting that he blotted out any light thought of a future like a rolling storm cloud. While Corypheus lived, there was only the war against him.

“I’m not sure.” Cullen mumbled. His tongue felt thick and slow. “I– ”

Something clattered, the tinny sound of an empty cup on stone, and Cullen’s gaze jerked to Grim, who was hunched over, his head nearly between his knees. A moment later, Grim’s body hit the floor next to his cup. 

Cullen leapt to his feet.

He– 

No, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t even lurched forward. 

Cullen’s arms still lay weakly across his chest where he’d tucked them and his legs were folded under him, unmoving. He couldn’t even feel the pain-pulse of his thigh. Everything was weak and wavering at the edges and not even his panic roused the beating of his heart, which was slow and steady.

Not the last dregs sleep then, that had made his limbs heavy, but the _wine._ The wine. Oh, Maker. _Grim._

“Venatori.” He spat at Tamsen, the effort nearly draining him. Now that he was aware of himself, he could feel the slowness of his thoughts. Even fear was doused and distant. 

Tamsen didn’t reply immediately. Instead she shifted enough to produce a key ring from her pocket, thumbing through the keys with patience she shifted through them until she got to the one she was looking for, which she used to unlock a thin drawer in Rylen’s desk.

“No.” Tamsen said, “We…”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. She looked tired, worn. 

“The Inquisition needs a strong war leader. But also someone who can rebuild when the battle is won. Someone who won’t forget the people who serve under him. Someone who hasn’t already tortured people.”

Cullen felt struck dumb, his thoughts scattered. His tongue was heavy in his mouth and when he spoke it was barely a mumble.

“What –? What are you– ”

“We know what the Templars did in Kirkwall.” Tamsen accused, “We heard the stories from the survivors. About the Gallows. And worse. And you– Kinloch…”

Cullen found that he was wrong. He could move. He could tremble. He was shaking from the core out, unable to look away from Tamsen’s hands, as she pulled out a horrifying familiar, thin case from Rylen’s desk.

“Things can’t go back to the way they were before. Everyone deserves better than that.” She explained, running her tongue over her lip. Maker, _she_ was nervous? Cullen felt he could hardly breathe.

“And you won’t do it. You won’t. Not after what you’ve done. Do you know how scared some of the mages are of you? How afraid they were to help? But I’m glad none of them were able to… finish things.” She said, suddenly turning fierce, “I’m glad. Because now you won’t die a martyr. You’ll just die the way all bad templars die eventually.” 

Tamsen took a deep heaving breath and opened the case. 

Cullen suddenly didn’t need to see what was inside to know what it was. 

He knew.

Oh, Maker, he knew.

He knew before she measured the dose.

He knew before it hit his veins and the world  _ sang,  _ finally  _ right _ when it’d been aching and empty for so,  _ so _ long before.

The lights in the room glowed in bright halos even as the shadows at the corner of his vision crept ever closer to the center.

He didn’t know when they blotted out his vision.

He didn’t know anything.

He was drowning in the rush even as he blacked out.

_ Lyrium. _


	8. Remember When?

Something was touching his face and throat.

Cullen paid it as little mind as he would voices from a table over in a tavern. It felt so far away, barely a distraction from the warm, heavy waters he was buffeted by. 

Some Templars told Cullen that they had felt Lyrium coursing through them like waves of electricity, spurring them to go faster, do more, notice everything. To be bold, brash. But while Cullen had also felt the frenzied energy he had also always found the Maker’s peace in his doses. They let him concentrate so fully on his tasks that the rest of the world fell away, sometimes for hours if he took enough. Lyrium soothed away the sting of every bruise, every twisted ankle, and aching rib from training. It lifted him above what he was capable of alone into a way of being that Cullen had always privately thought of as bordering on divine ecstasy. 

This near complete lack of sensation was foreign to him, though it was not unwelcome. The only thing he could hear was his blood rushing in a fast, frantic rhythm like waves tearing at the shore in a storm. And beyond it, like snatches of song caught in the gale, was a melody he almost knew. It was so faint, but dear to him, that he wished to silence his heart to hear more. 

Calloused fingers fell away from his face. Cullen reached for the music, his whole being yearning for purpose. He’d never felt such resistance before, as though his mind were free and his body were a weight that was being dragged under and away. 

Understanding came slowly, his mind slipping around the realization that he was asleep, held in a lucid dream.

Cullen willed himself to open his eyes and felt—nothing. Oh, but his heart was still hammering. Faster now, perhaps. Slowly, he mapped out the edges of his unfeeling body like a numb tongue tracing teeth. A sense of heaviness were his unmoving limbs. The weight of his closed eyes were boulders.

Then time reasserted itself. He could feel his body hit something, a distant ache that sent enough of a shock through his body that his eyes rolled and his eyelids struggled to rise.

For a moment he could see nothing but blackness and he wondered if he had managed to open his eyes at all. Then he felt himself being rolled over onto his back and the room swam into view. 

He was in his quarters on the bed. 

Cullen’s brows furrowed in confusion. Something about that was wrong. He’d been– He’d been–

“There we go,” Someone murmured.

Cullen could feel a hand lift his arm and place it by his side from where it had fallen when he was turned over. The same hand rolled back his sleeve, thumb brushing over what Cullen suddenly knew was an injection site despite there being only a trace of the familiar soreness. With a jolt that rocked his body, Cullen’s confusion leapt into full fledged panic. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling that ache. That something was wrong. 

“Shh.” The voice said. “Back to sleep.”

Despite the painful, frenzied beat of his heart, exhaustion still dragged down on him, threatening to extinguish his hard-won consciousness like a candle before a waterfall. With a whimper, Cullen hung on, managing to loll his head towards the speaker.

Lieutenant Tamsen met his eye from where she sat on the bed beside him. 

Cullen couldn’t help but capture every detail of her in his mind, unable to look away. She looked tired, but there was a firmness to the set of her mouth that he hadn’t seen until today. Her hair was mussed and the cloth over her armor in disarray along the same side. In her hand she held something that he couldn’t quite see, but that he recognized instantly by touch when she slipped it into his own: the injector from a lyrium kit.

A strangled sound rose in his throat, threatening but failing to turn into the questions trapped behind his teeth. It was so hard to _think._

“Sleep.” She commanded him. Her voice had a strange, musical quality to it, blending into the song that was singing through his body. “I’m giving you the mercy of not feeling when your heart goes.”

“No.” He gasped.

The word surprised them both and he could feel his focus ebb, his energy draining. Despite the fear curling through him, he knew he would soon be engulfed by the swell of the music that was already beckoning him to sleep once more. He rallied himself to fight. If he could speak, perhaps he could move. Maker willing, he could— _do something_. 

Tamsen turned to look at the wall, her fingers curling against the skin of his wrist. She took a deep breath and, when she spoke, Cullen’s heart stuttered.

"You have chosen, and spilled the blood

Of innocence for power. I pity your folly,

But still more do I pity those whose lives you have taken

In pursuit of selfish goals.

No more will you bear the Light.

To darkness flee, and be gone from My sight!"

 _Silences 3:7_ , he could not say.

There was a tremble in his hand that rattled the injector and she lifted her hand to touch his neck, his pulse leaping under her touch like hounds after a rabbit. 

“Faster than before.” She murmured and pulled back. Cullen found himself terrified of her touch, but when she rose to her feet another kind of fear gripped him.

“No.” He said again. This time his lips barely moved, though he didn’t know if it was from the paralyzing knowledge that she was about to leave him alone to die or because he was succumbing to the numbness of the realization that she thought him as corrupt as the magisters who had profaned the Maker’s Golden City. 

Tamsen’s eyes were pinched at the corners as though something about this was painful to her, but she said nothing. His eyes darted fitfully over her face, searching for mercy, and found none. He was struck with the thought that this was the last face he’d see. A face burned into his mind in perfect detail from her peeling nose to her avoidant gaze.

 _Andraste_ , he thought, but the plea faded in his mind, drowned out as the siren-song rose in him again, blotting all sound but the blasted beat of his heart, which he now knew was counting to the end. 

Numb, Cullen watched Tamsen lay out the rest of the lyrium kit at his bedside table. 

He could see how she intended this to look: a templar giving into the pain of his injuries and the temptation of his cravings. With his own kit buried in his desk at Skyhold, he must have taken the opportunity presented by Rylen’s absence to seize his kit. Rylen could even vouch that Cullen knew where it was and… Maker, he’d even handed Cullen the keys to his office. 

Would Rylen think twice about Cullen’s supposedly broken resolution to stop using lyrium?

His mind latched onto the thought, pulling forth Ryle’s tired voice from memory: _“I’m trying to tell you what I’ve seen my brothers and sisters undergo. Men and women of all ranks who have come from very different places before they served. Or are you saying that you are beyond them all? Unaffected by leaving Templar life in a way they were not?”_

Rylen had seen so many friends relapse and... Cullen was no different to them at the core of it all, was he? Rylen would believe that he’d only lacked the opportunity. That at the first moment of weakness he’d gone back to what he knew. 

And that had been what Tamsen thought of him as well, hadn’t it? 

In Kirkwall he’d said those much-regretted words to Hawke: _Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me. They are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique._

And they hadn’t only been his words—they’d been circulated around the Gallows often enough. By Meredith, with grim determination. By Alrik, who had championed a “Tranquil solution” to the problem. By Varnell, who had the ear of Sister Petrice.

Even the kinder Templars believed it. Emeric and Thrask had agreed, though Thrask had loved his mage daughter enough to spare her the Circle even as he spent his days keeping other mages contained within. 

And then, after Cullen declaring that he wanted nothing more to do with the life and bloodshed he had left behind in Kirkwall—distancing himself from it as much as he could—he’d found comfort in telling Tamsen that he wished things would return to the way they had been before The Breach.

Was that what he truly wanted? The world to spin back to everything it had been, but leaving him free of the guilt he carried?

Was that what Meredith had felt when she thought back on the loss of her sister? That if only things had been as they had been—with one essential difference—then anything would all be worth it? That anything necessary to expunge her guilt would be well done?

Did he think that? That if he could escape the pain of who he had been— that if he personally stopped dipping his hands into the blood of mages and no one spoke of it again—that would be enough?

He may not have sought power, as Meredith had, but he had it now nonetheless. And damn Tamsen—damn her for drawing him to that realization when he lay on his deathbed, unable to do more than lie there and wait for the end to take him.

_But still more do I pity those whose lives you have taken_

_In pursuit of selfish goals._

Tamsen had chosen her sendoff well. 

The mages at Kinloch and the Gallows… Cullen pitied them for being under him. He pitied the brave men and women of the Inquisition as well for their belief in the future he’d help bring, expecting him to help build a better world instead of the one they had hoped to leave behind. 

His heart raced at a fever pitch, sore in a way he had never felt before. As Tamsen finished her arrangements and rose to her feet, Cullen realized that he was past the point where he could let himself fade into the song of lyrium and pass quietly. The sedative had begun to loosen its grip on him, but the lyrium was only beginning to reach its height. 

Cullen turned his gaze away from her, unwilling to chance meeting her gaze a final time and seeing the well-earned condemnation there. His head lolled and he found himself facing the doorway and a pair of shocked blue eyes—Dalish!

Had Cullen’s heart not already felt like it was about to burst from his chest, it would do so now. His mouth fell open, lips desperate to give warning to her to go, to flee—surely, Tamsen would not hesitate to take action to bury a witness, not when she had already drugged Grim.

Oh, Maker’s mercy, _Grim_.

But if the Maker had any mercy to spare, he did not give it to Grim or Dalish, whose eyes hardened even as Tamsen turned and went rigid. 

“Step away from him.” Dalish said with quiet menace. Her fingers were wrapped loosely around her staff. Cullen, though, had been trained to fight mages: his eyes picked out the tenseness of her forearm and the shift of her feet and _knew_ even before ice cut through the air that the attack was coming.

Tamsen had no such warning.

She threw herself to the side as the ice barely missed and embedded itself into the side table she had been standing in front of. The vial of lyrium shattered against the wood and spilled down the legs, an obscene glowing blue in the dimly lit room.

But Tamsen wasn’t off guard long. Rallying, she drew her sword and threw herself across the room. 

Cullen keened as Dalish stepped through the doorway to meet her, staff in hand.

Tamsen swung and Cullen expected blood, broken wood, or worse—but Dalish didn’t move to block. She ducked to the side, fast as a shadow, and slammed the bottom of her foot into the back of Tamsen’s knee. A move that Cullen had seen Krem perform a hundred times and yet, never once thought that the Chargers may have all been trained to use.

Tamsen staggered forward, catching herself on the door frame. But she was a seasoned fighter and it was training more than conscious thought to never leave her back to an enemy. She pushed through the shock and whirled to face Dalish, sword at the ready, only to widen her eyes and step back, barely managing to avoid breaking her nose as Dalish slammed the door in her face with a resonant _BANG._

Dalish’s hand flew to turn the lock even as something crashed into it from the other side. The door rattled ominously in its hinges, having never been made to withstand force. 

“Fenedhis!” Dalish spat. 

Cullen could see her casting around for something to buy time, only stilling when her eyes fell on the chair that held his armor. She yanked the chair towards the door, letting the armor fall to the stone with a violent clatter that had Cullen flinching. She wedged it under the handle just before the next strike fell, but although the door didn’t move with the blow he could hear the sound of wood splintering.

The door wouldn’t last long.

Neither, Cullen suspected, would his heart. It leapt in his chest like fire catching on the edge of a stray piece of paper, tongues of flame bounding up the side and sending the whole page ablaze. His whole body ached with the force of each beat. He could feel his body trembling with it.

But Dalish didn’t know that she’d stepped in to save a man who was walking dead and was now trapped in the tomb with him.

Blind to Cullen’s guilt, Dalish raised her staff at the door and began to cast. She moved with deliberation, not even flinching as the door began to splinter and split in front of her. Cullen was sure that it would collapse before her working finished, but he’d no sooner thought it than a purple cloud rose around the door, lightning-white motes dancing through it like stars. And just like that almost all sound of the door’s assault stopped and Cullen could hear nothing but the drums of his own heart, the never-ending song of lyrium, and the bellows of Dalish’s breath.

She took one step back from the door, then two. When the silence held she lowered her staff and turned towards him, worry in her eyes.

“Commander?” She asked. “You alive?”

Cullen wheezed out a laugh as hysteria took him.

“Oh. Right then. You’re definitely fine.” Dalish murmured dryly, coming to stand by his bedside. She picked up one of the tools that had been knocked on the floor and turned it over, watching the drip of lyrium down the side. Her mouth settled into a thin line and her hand clenched around it before she threw it back on the ground. If she had questions about it, she didn’t ask them. She settled on the bed next to Cullen and he twitched when her fingers came to rest on his throat against his pulse.

“Don’t.” He managed, his laughter twisting into something more raw. He knew it was futile for her to try. He couldn’t feel his body past the heat and pain of it. 

“Can’t give me orders, Commander.” Dalish said, moving her hand to feel his forehead next. “Don’t work for you.”

“Sorry.” He whispered hoarsely. “There’s nothing. Nothing you– ”

He swallowed the rest of the words. What could he say? 

He could see a thin sheen of sweat on her fingers when she drew them away to pull down his eyelid and scrutinize his eye. Cullen could faintly recall that Krem had said she had no true medical training, but she was methodical in her ministrations. She checked his hands, rested her ear upon his chest to hear his heart and lungs, and more, though Cullen found that he couldn’t quite follow along or guess at her aims. He knew he was dying. Perhaps she did too and this was–

The touch of magic was a shock that had him arching, fear lending him a strength his body didn’t truly have as he instinctively dispelled its effects.

Time snapped and he suddenly realized where he was.

Maker, no. _Not again_ . He couldn’t– _he was in the Circle at Kinloch. No, no. He hadn’t gotten out. He’d_ –

“Shit!” A blood mage cried, gripping his shoulders.

“Let go of me!” He tried to fight it but his body was fevered from being held for days without food or water. The moment after the illusion broke was always the hardest, when he realized he had never left and his greatest fears and dreams had been used to try to crack him open along his seams to make space for a demon to fit inside. 

“Lady of Perpetual Victory– ” He stammered, falling back on the Chant with desperation. 

“Stop it, Commander! I’m trying to help you!” 

His elbow connected with something before a body pinned him down. 

Maker, no. They’d never come into the pen of magic he’d been caged in before. They had only circled him from beyond the light, pressed demons on him to try slip inside him—every one wearing a face he knew.

He feared the face above him, so familiar as all the mages in Kinloch were.

“Enough!” He begged.

“Idiot!” The mage swore. “Listen to me!”

He was an idiot and worse besides that. He’d fallen for it. He’d been weak. He’d _forgotten_ where he was. He was never getting out. He was going to die here, beside every brother that had been eaten from the inside out for the sport of these abominations.

His chest was on fire with pain, heart clenching tightly at the thought of another day of waking beside their twisted corpses. He was the last. He had to stand, for all of them. He had to. He had to die the way they were supposed to: with faith in his heart, knowing they would rejoin the Maker and escape this pain forever.

“I won’t listen to any lies!” His voice broke. Oh, Maker. Andraste. Help him. Help him, _someone_. A sob caught in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut. He knew the demons would come again—they always did—but he could have a small reprieve, a moment–

Magic poured into him again and he screamed in terror, flushing it from himself frantically. 

“Commander!” The mage roared. “Get a hold of yourself!”

“O Maker,” He stammered, starting the verse for Transfigurations. He needed to hold on. He needed to endure.

“I’m sorry, Cullen.” The mage growled, hands like vices holding Cullen down despite his thrashing. “I don’t know how to heal you. But you need to stop fighting me so I can try!”

Lies. He threw himself into prayer desperately to drown out the sound of its voice and anything it might offer him.

“ _O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Seat me by Your side in death._

_Make me one within Your glory._

_And let the world once more see Your favor._ ” 

The wave of magic rose again and he dispelled it.

Then again. And again.

He felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes and blinked rapidly, letting them run down his skin and coil wetly and awfully in the well of his ears. He’d come to shame so many times in the Circle, but each time still burned. 

He finished Transfigurations and started the Canticle of Trials, his voice gone but his throat working rawly to shape the words. Throughout it the pulses of magic came, some thin and questing, others sharp like he was being doused in ice. Each broke against the lyrium singing in his skin, protecting him like he was holding the Maker’s blessing in his veins.

“Fenedhis, this isn’t working.” 

Blessed be, he felt the mage let him go and climb off him. He panted, soaked in sweat, his heart pounding in his ears. _Maker, thank you. Thank you_. He stopped reciting the chant so he could catch his breath.

He could still hear it moving nearby and he curled weakly on his side, too afraid to turn his back to it even as he kept his eyes pressed tightly closed. His hand clutched his chest and it was a shock to feel cloth instead of armor. Had it undressed him? Why? 

All thoughts scattered when he heard it come back and begin to speak. No, no–

“ _They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who’s walked the patrol of Hightown Market at midnight might disagree_.” The mage said. 

It was nonsense. He couldn’t listen.

 _“The pickpockets and confidence men head to the taverns at dusk, the dwarven businessmen and nobles go back to their tiny palaces to fret over the ways they got cheated, and the market falls silent._ ”

No, Cullen knew those words, but he couldn’t place them. Something was wrong about them being here and he cracked an eye open fearfully. 

The mage was– reading. From a book. 

“ _Donnen Brennokovic knew every angle of the market with his eyes closed. Twenty years of patrols had etched it into him so that he walked that beat even in his dreams._ ” The mage recited. She turned to look at Cullen and paused. “Are you back with me?”

Cullen flinched under her attention. 

“Not yet? Alright, hold tight. _The recruit, Jevlan, was another story. The ring of steel striking stone told Donnen that the kid had stumbled into a column again. His new armor would be full of dents by sunrise_.”

It was familiar. Cullen had read that book before. The dwarf, Varric had given it to him. He couldn’t understand how the mage came to have it from him. Had it gone through his things? No—that wasn’t right. He didn’t have this book at this Circle. But he _had_ read it. 

Yet how could he have? Once he joined Kinloch, he was bound to stay until he had completed several years’ service. He never left or spoke with someone who was not in the Circle or Order. And dwarves were not Templars or mages. They couldn’t be. 

When could he have met one that gave him this book?

His head was pounding along with his chest and it was so painful he could barely breathe. He didn’t want these questions. He wanted it to stop. But something was wrong. He had to pick apart the wrongness to unveil the illusion for what it was and foil the demon’s plot. He had to.

Either he met Varric before he’d taken his station in Kinloch or he never owned the book. But, he knew it. He knew he did. And he had joined the Templars when he was scarcely a teen. It had been with these hands of his—the hands of an adult—that he remembered receiving the book. He struggled, grinding to a conclusion that shocked him.

He– he met Varric... in Kirkwall?

Cullen remembered Kirkwall. Blood. Death. Abominations. The flames that burned the city. Meredith.

His breath caught in his throat.

Varric had been there. Before that. Was he part of a memory… or was he an illusion a demon had created? Surely, if they could pick apart his mind, unearthing and baring every secret, hope, and fear he had they could also fake a memory?

But no, he remembered his training. It was everything that had kept him intact. You had to fear the familiar, not the unfamiliar. Demons came to you in the guise of those you knew and trusted. Why would he trust an unknown dwarf who… gave him a book?

He clutched at his chest again, eyes darting to the mage who was still reading. 

Her face was still familiar. But she didn’t wear the robes of the Circle. She was dressed head to toe in chainmail with a tabard draped over it. The Grey Wardens had rescued him—was she one of them?

Cullen paused.

When did they rescue him? He was still there. He was…

Cullen gasped for breath as his mind caught up with him. This wasn’t Kinloch. No. He was in… Griffon Wing Keep. Oh, Maker. 

Dalish stopped her recitation at the raw sound he made.

“Shit. Commander…?” She asked.

“...Dalish?” He whispered.

Her shoulders lost their rigid set. “You’re with me again? Or should I keep going? You need me to do the voices?”

Cullen sobbed. At first, with relief. Then grief and shame. His breath began to come in fits and starts and he nearly choked as panic rose in him.

He knew who she was again. Dalish, Krem’s soldier. He remembered her reading to him. Teasing him on the trip. She had tried to save his life.

Maker, he was so scared of her still.

Slowly, as though he were a wild animal, Dalish approached, kneeling on the floor beside the bed. 

“Commander?”

“I’m here.” He gasped, letting her know he hadn’t fallen into memory again. 

“Did she give you anything aside of lyrium?”

Cullen flinched in shame.

“No,” He said. 

Dalish reached out to him again slowly, fingers closing around his wrist to take his pulse. He went rigid under her touch, but she did nothing. No magic touched him. She didn’t move. It hurt to be so tense and eventually he stopped bracing to snatch his hand away from her.

“I think your heart beat isn’t so fast.”

He laughed, broken and wretched. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, pain radiating from it as it worked itself to death like a horse forced to run until it dropped. 

“Cullen,” She said, voice low and serious enough to make his throat close. “I mean it. But it’s still going too fast. Your body can’t take it.”

He knew that already. Maker, he knew.

He looked into her eyes and could tell that she knew it too. He was going to die and she was going to be left with his corpse, perfectly positioned to take the blame. If Tamsen didn’t break in and dispose of her witness before the troops returned, then surely Rylen wouldn’t listen to one of Krem’s mages. The room itself gave witness to a violent struggle of magic and sword that would set Rylen’s heart to steel. No note or testimony would turn his mind; anything could be forged or written under duress.

Cullen’s heart throbbed. 

Even on his deathbed, he’d kill another mage. He was soaked in their blood. From the ones he’d personally slain to the ones whose treatment he’d overlooked at Kirkwall to even the ones he’d begged to be slaughtered at Kinloch after his imprisonment—he was responsible for them all. There would be no reunion at the Maker’s side for him after death.

Suddenly the weight of it staggered him and he was too tired to run from it anymore. 

He murdered those mages.

It wasn’t right—it wasn’t for the Maker’s true justice—it had been because of fear and nothing more. His fear, the fear of the Order, the fear of the people. All of it. He’d flooded himself in lies so he could keep looking at himself in the mirror, but he couldn’t hide behind them any more. 

This was his truth bared and it broke him more deeply than the demons at Kinloch ever did.

“I’m sorry.” He gasped, wet and raw. “I’m sorry, Dalish.”

“Listen,” She urged him, squeezing his wrist until he turned his eyes to her. “You need to let me help you.”

It was too late for that.

“I need to see if I can draw the lyrium out of you.” She pressed. “You have to stop fighting me.”

“I can’t.” He sobbed. “I can’t. Dalish—I’m sorry.”

“We have to do what we can before your body collapses under the strain. By all the gods, work with me, shem!” 

He couldn’t. He was going to die and so was she.

“If you don’t,” Dalish said, her voice turning threatening. “I’ll keep casting on you. You’ll spend the lyrium to stop me. But you may die before it reaches a safe amount. I don’t know how much she gave you or how much Templars usually take.”

“Please, stop. Don’t, just let me–” He begged. He couldn’t take more magic. He didn’t want to die lost to where he was, caught in another flashback. He knew it was the cruelty he deserved, but he begged anyway.

“Then let me help you. For fuck’s sake, Cullen. You’re not going to die and leave me to tell Krem that I got his lover killed, will you?”

_Krem._

Cullen’s heart ached in an entirely different way thinking of Krem. It was too much for him.

“Tell him I’m sorry.” He begged and he _was_ sorry. But he also knew she would never get to tell Krem once he died. Oh Maker, they both deserved better. Krem deserved the world. Everything Cullen had longed to give him and fallen short of. He could only pray that Krem would find it again with someone else after his passing. It hurt to even think of now and he buried his regrets as best he could lest he drown in them.

Dalish’s expression turned determined and she raised her hands to cup his face. 

“Work with me, Cullen.” She commanded, magic rising to her fingertips.

He keened, lyrium singing through his veins to douse every spark that leapt into him. When she stopped pouring magic into him, he was crying again.

“Fuck,” She swore. “Cullen. _Try_.”

Then her magic was on him again.

He begged and pleaded, but she wouldn’t stop.

In terror, he hung on to the details of her face to ground him in the here and now. Even now as every beat of his heart drove him closer to death and he struggled to stop her, she was fighting for him to live. 

Dalish didn’t deserve to die here. Not for him.

For an instant he regretted it more than anything. He couldn’t unspool time and change the past. All the blood he’d shed was dried and gone, but for hers. For the moment she was alive, even if she was marching towards her doom with no one to speak for her but Krem, who may well also be thrown on the same damned pyre for collaboration in his death.

In… Cullen’s death.

His breath froze in his lungs and he ignored Dalish slamming her fist on his chest until he drew in a shuddering breath.

Dalish. Krem. They would only face trial if he died. 

If he _lived_ –

No, he was too far gone. He could feel his body trembling with exhaustion, pain, and tears. Even if he wanted to live— _selfish_ , he was a _murderer_ —he couldn’t prevent it. He–

Oh. He _wanted_ to die.

Somehow the realization was a shock to him, even after everything.

He wanted to die. Was this his ultimate cowardice? He’d fled the acknowledgement of his own cruelty for years and pretended that living a normal life would absolve him. Now did he think dying would do the same thing?

The dead didn’t face justice for their crimes.

Shaking, Cullen clutched her hands. 

“Dalish.” He begged.

“I’m not stopping.” She swore, “You are going to fucking live and buy me every drink I _ever_ have for the rest of my life, you–”

“Tell me. Tell me what you’re doing. Even if I don’t understand it. Please.”

Dalish caught his eye and held it for a long moment.

“Alright,” She said, dragging her tongue across her cracked lip. “I’m trying to–”

Most of it was nonsense to him. Though he’d lived his life around magic, Cullen had never studied it except to stop it from being cast. Besides which, he was in no state to understand it even if he had more than a working understanding of how magic worked. His body and thoughts were a wreck. 

Instead, he listened to the melody of her voice and tried to relax as she cast. 

He tried to let go of his fear. He tried to welcome the magic. He imagined that it was like a river flowing over him. He tried to think of it as warmth from a fire on a cold day. He tried to imagine an afterwards, a time when it would stop and he would be grateful that he had done it. He tried to remember Krem’s arms around him in the dark, murmuring to him that he could do this, that he could learn to withstand the touch of magic again.

Every touch of magic felt like nails driving into his skin. 

As blow after blow fell on him, Cullen found it harder and harder to stay present.

By the time his vision failed and he passed out he still didn’t know if he’d succeeded or failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone for the wonderful comments that they've been leaving. It's a difficult time right now, but your feedback has really helped me smile and keep going.


	9. A Reckoning

Before Cullen was even fully awake he felt the pain. There was a hand in his and he didn’t even think before he squeezed it gently, drawing comfort when it tightened around him in turn.

“Krem?” He murmured hopefully. 

“Thank fuck,” Dalish said. “You’re alive.”

Sometimes when Cullen woke he didn’t remember where he was, but this wasn’t one of those times. If Dalish were with him instead of Krem then it meant that not much time had passed while he rested. Though rested would be a generous word. Cullen felt like he'd been kept awake for a week and then trampled by a herd of druffalo. Every inch of him ached inside and out. But, he realized abruptly, the pain in his chest came with every  _ slow _ , deep, and sometimes stuttering beat of his heart.

Dalish had done it.

“Thank you,” He rasped, “Dalish, you—”

“We’re not out yet.” Dalish cut him off. “My barrier on the door won’t last forever. And unfortunately…”

She trailed off, aggrieved, and Cullen willed his eyes to open.

Dalish looked awful. In his years, Cullen had seen many mages run down to the very last dregs of their power—usually, Cullen’s mind couldn’t help remember with a jolt of fear, before they turned into abominations—and Dalish looked like she was close to dropping. Her eyes were fixed on the door, but her shoulders were sagging and she listed without seeming to even realize it. 

She looked like she was only awake through sheer determination. She wouldn’t be able to raise a barrier again.

Unable to find the words for his gratitude for all that she’d done, Cullen squeezed her hand again before slowly sitting up. 

He’d definitely pulled something while fighting Dalish earlier. His arm felt like it’d been half wrenched out of its socket and it was almost a surprise to feel the pain in his thigh once more. It felt an age since he had last thought of it—Tamsen and the lyrium and his realizations and his  _ heart _ occupying all of his attention—but it had barely been any time at all. He couldn’t help the sound of pain that rose to the back of his throat as he tried to steady himself upright.

“I had to stop casting on you when I ran out of magic. I didn’t know if you’d make it.” Dalish suddenly confessed, her voice hoarse. “And if you try to stand up and fucking, I don’t know, have a heart attack, I will find your spirit in the Fade myself and strangle it.”

Cullen swallowed.

“That’s fair.” He said. “If I have to die, I’ll try to fall and hit my head instead.”

Dalish burst into laughter and then, suddenly, Cullen found he wasn’t far behind. It was desperate, hacking, sore-throated, and utterly unhinged laughter. If he had to explain why, Cullen knew he wouldn’t be able to. It felt like laughter was the only thing left to them.

“Fuck you.” Dalish gasped, smacking Cullen weakly. “I’m fucking serious!”

“I know—” 

“And you made me fucking play healer to your dumb ass you after I fucking warned you! Fifth time, I told you, I told you—” She accused between breaths.

They fell dead silent when there was a hard knock at the door. 

Cullen’s eyes darted towards it, his throat suddenly dry. The purple glow that had once encompassed it had almost disappeared. A faint film still coated the wood, but the sparks that had raced across its surface were gone and sound was no longer as muffled from the hallway as it had been.

There came another knock. Then a series of rapid and spaced out taps and–

“That’s the Charger’s code!” Dalish claimed, weakly rising to her feet. 

Cullen gripped her arm.

“Wait. Rylen would never let him come here alone. Not if he thought—” Cullen swallowed. He wasn’t sure what Rylen thought.

“Let me deal with it.” Dalish said, shaking Cullen off and wobbling to the door. 

She took a deep breath and rapped out a series of knocks and pauses. There was silence on the other side of the door and another rhythm was tapped out in return. Whatever codes they were sending, Cullen couldn’t understand them. Then the new message stopped somewhat abruptly, if the frown on Dalish’s face were any measure. 

And then—

“Dalish?” The voice on the other side of the door sounded like it was coming from very far away, but it was undoubtedly Krem’s voice. Cullen’s eyes stung and he had to blink away the build of tears. Maker, Krem was  _ here _ .

“I’m here.” Dalish called.

“Remove your barrier, lay down your weapons, and step away from the door.” Rylen commanded, his voice pitched to carry through even the magic’s sound-dampening effect.

“Sorry, the Commander told me not to open the door for anyone I don’t know.” Dalish lied blandly, unmoved by the unspoken threat in Rylen’s voice. “You want to ask him instead?”

Silence. Then—

“Cullen?” Rylen’s voice sounded strange. 

“I’m here.” Cullen called out. Then, again, when he realized that his voice barely carried. Even so, he wasn’t sure it made it through the door if the silence on the other side was any measure.

“Don’t think they can hear you.” Dalish said, pitched so Rylen and Krem could undoubtedly hear her words.

Then Krem called his name, stiff and uncertain as though sounding out an unfamiliar word and Cullen broke. He knew that tone. Krem had spoken to him in the courtyard like that, voice tight and—

“Dalish, the door.” He ordered.

“Are you sure?” Dalish asked, her voice barely a whisper. If the way her hand strayed towards the door before she lowered it, he didn’t think she disagreed. Maybe she wanted to know if he felt safe enough for it. Maybe not. Cullen couldn’t concentrate very well. 

“Please.” He breathed.

Belatedly, Cullen realized that they should have thought ahead. They should have planned… anything. As it was, he wasn’t sure what he really expected when Dalish announced “Alright, we’re opening the door” and dispelled the last dregs of magic holding it in place and moved the chair, but he wasn’t fully prepared for a handful of Inquisition soldiers to burst through and pin Dalish.

Cullen lurched forward to help her only to double over, clutching his chest as his heart burst into agony at the motion.

“Stop.” He gasped, vision swimming. 

He could feel hands land on his shoulders, easing him back onto the bed, and then Rylen’s face—pulled into tense, concerned, and unhappy lines—above him.

“Peace, Cullen.” He soothed. “I’ve already called for a healer. Don’t strain yourself.”

“She didn’t do anything—call them off, now.” Cullen ordered, but he could hear his own voice come out thin and choppily between breaths, lacking the strength he wanted to put into it. Lying down had helped, though, and he could feel the pain receding as he lay panting.

“She’s not going to be hurt, she’s just being moved so we can get you help.” Rylen informed him.

Cullen turned his head towards the door, where Dalish was being searched for weapons. On the other side of the doorway, Krem stood watching the proceedings like a statue. His expression was completely wiped clean and it took Cullen a moment to realize that Corporal Fionn was standing next to him with his hand on Krem’s arm, nominally keeping him in place.

“Corporal, release him.” Cullen ordered.

Fionn glanced Cullen’s way before his eyes slid towards Rylen. He licked his lip and turned his gaze to the floor. Cullen tried to ignore the churning in his stomach and turned to Rylen directly.

“Rylen,” Cullen said. He waited for Rylen to meet his eyes, trying to impress his seriousness into his word. “Tell them to stand down.”

Rylen did not.

“What’s going on?” Cullen said, eyes darting from person to person. His brain was too wrung out to put the pieces together, but the sense that something was badly wrong kept rising like bile in the back of his throat. 

“We’re getting you help.” Rylen said.

“Help?” Cullen demanded. “ _ Dalish _ was helping me after  _ your Lieutenant _ poisoned me—”

“What?” For the first time since he entered the room, Krem spoke. His voice was low and dangerously flat. From the corner of his eye, Cullen could see Krem’s face snap towards him.

“—and now everyone’s acting like utter madmen—”

There was no reason for Rylen to look as old as he did in that moment. He turned to his men at the door and ordered: “Take the mage to the rest of the Chargers and close the door. Stay in the hallway and stay alert for further orders.”

Dalish and Krem met eyes as the guards turned her to face the door. Krem’s eyes tightened and something unspoken passed between them. Fionn tightened his hand, as though to pull Krem into the hallway, but Krem moved further into Cullen’s bedroom so that Dalish could be escorted out. Cullen could see Fionn stagger a little as Krem tugged him along, surprised by Krem’s strength. The door closed behind them.

Then it was only Rylen, Cullen, Krem, and Fionn in the room. 

Rylen’s expression was inscrutable, his lips into a thin line, and he turned back to Cullen.

“What is going on, Rylen?” Cullen demanded in a furious whisper. 

Rylen pulled off his gloves to take Cullen’s hand into his own. Cullen had never seen Rylen without his gloves, even in the humidity of Kirkwall, and it was a shock to feel hands with the same callouses as Cullen’s gripping his own. It was an unexpected comfort and somehow it only served to put him even more ill at ease.

“You’re lucky not to be dead right now, Cullen.” Rylen said.

“I am.” Cullen agreed hotly. “Where is Lieutenant Tamsen? How did you—?”

“I’m sorry.” Rylen murmured. “I knew better than to let you push yourself with your injuries. You shouldn’t have been in the well or out of bed after you were stabbed. You must have been in a lot of pain.”

Cullen blinked, thrown.

“Tamsen wasn’t supposed to leave you by yourself for exactly that reason.”

“She tried to kill me, Rylen!”

“No, she tried to get the lyrium away from you.” Rylen looked… old, worn. But resolute. “Your memory—”

“What do you mean my ‘memory’? She drugged me, she—”

“Cullen.”

“Dalish saw her!” Cullen exploded, struggling to rise up. Rylen quickly put a hand on his shoulder to guide him back down, but Cullen wasn’t having it. His heart was beating furiously and he could feel his gorge rising..

“No, Dalish saw her at your side trying to help you and attacked her.” Rylen declared, his brow drawing into an unforgiving frown. “Dalish misunderstood what she saw, Cullen. She locked out Tamsen and kept people from coming to help you and fed you the nonsense that Tamsen was hurting you because she didn’t know what she was looking at. But you could have died from her interference. She stopped help from reaching you. Any mage who could have taken down the barrier was out with with our forces, leaving you trapped here, overdosing from what you took—Tamsen was trying to—” 

“What _ I _ took?” Cullen demanded, his voice nearly breaking with outrage. He could see no response in Rylen’s expression and it drove him utterly mad, as though he were standing on a street corner and screaming himself hoarse while a crowd walked by unphased. Cullen had known that Tamsen had intended his death to look like an overdose, but he hadn't anticipated Rylen fighting him on the truth once he had lived. Surely his word would be trustworthy?

“I told you that Cullen doesn’t take lyrium anymore.” Krem cut in flatly.

“And I told you,” Rylen said, voice dropping low and dangerous. “That if you spoke again I would have you imprisoned for what your man did.”

Cullen’s eyes flew to Krem.

Krem was standing stock still, as though carved from stone. By his side, Fionn rocked from foot to foot uncomfortably. His hand was no longer on Krem’s arm, though he hovered close enough to intervene should he be called to.

“Is that what you think?” Cullen demanded. “That I— what? Broke into your office and took your lyrium?”

Rylen looked at him.

He did. 

Oh, Maker. He _ did _ . 

Cullen could see it in every detail of his face.

It was a weariness that went deeper than battle fatigue, a resignation that Cullen hadn’t seen in him even when he first came to Kirkwall and beheld the remains of the Chantry and the utter ruins of the Templar order. Then, Rylen had been filled with a grim sort of determination. Now, Rylen looked like the Templars after a Harrowing that went as poorly as everyone dreaded from a weak-willed mage. 

He hadn’t expected any better from Cullen. And why would he? Rylen already believed that Cullen had broken his word to him. Oh, Maker.

And it was the worst kind of revelation to find out that, after everything, there were still untouched places in Cullen that could hurt.

“Rylen.” Cullen said, hating how unsteady his voice was from the shock of it all. “I didn’t. I swear to you. On the Maker. On Andraste’s grace.”

He tightened his hand around Rylen’s, trying to will Rylen into believing him. But his sincerity broke like waves on the cliff of Rylen’s conviction.

“I’m sorry, Cullen.” Rylen said, pityingly. “The craving is hard, even when you try to taper the doses off.”

Cullen pulled his hand away from Rylen’s as though it had turned to ice and shook off the hand on his shoulder.

“ _ Maker _ , Rylen.”

Cullen felt disgusted. Disgust _ ing. _ His body was a wreck from the inside out—his heart, his thigh, his thoughts, even his lungs—and now he wanted to crawl away from every inch of Rylen with as much desperation as he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Disappointment and horror warred for his tongue and left him speechless and sick with the realization that Rylen had been waiting for this. Or something like it. He had told Cullen as much when he had arrived, had he not?

_ “I’m trying to tell you what I’ve seen my brothers and sisters undergo. Men and women of all ranks who have come from very different places before they served. Or are you saying that you are beyond them all? Unaffected by leaving Templar life in a way they were not?”  _

He’d accused Cullen of latching on to Krem, of evading the ‘truth’ of his circumstances. His ‘truth’ being that Cullen would sink into desperation the moment he was out of sight of a controlling influence, whether it be Rylen’s or Krem’s. That he was a man on the edge, teetering over the brink.

In that moment, Cullen knew exactly why Tamsen had the confidence that her plan to kill him would work and wouldn’t implicate her in the least. And now, even though it had failed, it didn’t matter at all. 

Dalish and Grimm could give testimony to what happened and what they saw. 

Cullen himself could give every detail of the day from how Tamsen had drugged the wine to how she administered the dose. He could recite the words that she had condemned him with. He could explain her conviction that his death would be a righteous one.

But it wouldn’t matter. 

At the end of it all, the truth wasn’t the reality that Rylen would believe. He could believe in a world where Templars broke their oaths and every man from Tevinter had a blade behind his back. He could believe in people betraying themselves through their blindness, like Kirkwall had in its fall: a bomb at its feet and its own hands around its neck. Like Meredith with the crazed glow of lyrium in her eyes as she gave the orders that would see her dead.

He could believe that people made traitors of themselves through weakness, not through malevolence. And he could imagine an enemy inside every court but his own.

It wasn’t even that Rylen valued Tamsen’s word over Cullen’s. It was whether Rylen believed in Cullen’s weakness. And weakness, any weakness, meant disaster unless it was circumvented. And Cullen had shown himself to be weak before Rylen. Before everyone.

What did Cullen look like through any eyes but his own?

Rylen, who thought he was naive, short-sighted, and easily manipulated by a kind word. Who thought Cullen had lied and broken any possible trust between them.

Tamsen, who thought he was little more than a murderer who had been left unchecked by institutional corruption. 

Krem, who called him an idiot for trusting everyone he wanted to think well of him instead of those who had proven themselves to him.

Dalish, who had seen the part of him that would rather die than change. 

All of it was true. Damningly, undeniably true. If weakness were water, Cullen was drowning in his own sea. But his weakness didn’t make Rylen right. It didn’t make him stronger or more rational. 

“Maker, I’m a fool.” Cullen whispered.

Bitterness suddenly tainted his memories of Rylen. In Kirkwall, he’d been a rock that Cullen could rely on, a man that Cullen could turn to in order to check that he hadn’t strayed from the path. He was everything that Cullen had hoped he could be in the aftermath of all the pain and demons that had come to light. Solid. Unyielding. Sure of himself and the way of the world. A man who could do no wrong.

Now, Cullen couldn’t feel anything but disgust for himself for latching onto yet another idol even after he had just seen Meredith exposed. Not because Rylen was a bad man, but because he was just a man.

_I was a fool for always trusting you more than I trusted myself._ Cullen thought to himself. _For letting you know at every turn that I was wounded and that I thought you were my bandage._ _And now, of course you must think that I will take your judgement over my own. It’s what I’ve done from the start. This is the bed I made._

Then he laughed a little, hysterical, because that was literally true too. Cullen had lain on this bed, trapped in the nightmares of the past and the terror of a future where he had to live. Now, he was still soaked in the same sweat from that struggle when he met Rylen’s eye. 

He felt like he had nothing more to give and nothing more to fear that he had not already done to himself.

What must he look like, even now? Like everyone’s worst thought about him realized, no doubt. But Cullen had lived in weakness for years, ever since Kinloch. He’d been weak trapped in the circle and tortured by demons, he’d been weak when he’d followed Meredith’s every word, and he’d been weak every day his fears had driven him to mistreat those under his protection. He’d learned something about his weakness. Something different than what Rylen had. 

Once weak,once a liar, even, did not forever mar Cullen as incapable. And Cullen had learned not to put his faith in any single idol. He did not need to lean on one woman’s—or man’s—approval. Not anymore.

Cullen took a deep, steadying breath and willed his body to stop shaking. He couldn’t do anything about the pain or exhaustion, but he could do this.

“Corporal Fionn.” Cullen called, turning to face him.

The man in question tried to straighten up and look as though he hadn’t been trying to avoid the heavy press of unease in the room. Even so, he looked in Cullen’s direction but failed to meet his eye. Part of Cullen felt pity for putting everyone’s attention on him, but he pressed on when Fionn didn’t respond readily.

“ _ Corporal _ .”

“Yes, ser?” 

“You’re to arrest Lieutenant Tamsen and have her held in isolation, guarded by men who came with us to the Keep. Have the mages in the Keep put under observation and their watchers should be men in our company as well. Once you’ve seen to that, release the Chargers and have them assemble here. Am I understood?”

Fionn’s eyes slid towards Rylen.

No, Cullen couldn’t let him do that. His heart beat faster and even the small uptick sent pain lancing through him like a blade. 

“Do you listen to the Knight-Captain instead, Fionn?” Cullen pressed, voice flat as he fought to keep the pain from showing on his face. “Have I missed the Herald reassigning our roles?”

“No, Ser, but—”

“Has she deemed me unfit to command?”

“Cullen, your health—” Rylen interrupted, his voice soft. 

“My ‘health’ didn’t stop me from planning the assault.” Cullen snapped, “And it would certainly be better if I had not just nearly been assassinated in my own bed!” 

No, he couldn’t bring the conversation back to what happened. It didn’t matter. No matter how he yearned to say  _ I understand what you think happened, Rylen, but I know what happened, why can’t you trust me? _ it would only bring him into a debate that he had no chance of changing Rylen’s mind on. 

“Corporal, I’m not repeating myself.” Cullen said, definitely repeating himself. His thoughts weren’t as sharp as they could be, but this was the best move he could make. He willed Fionn to hear him, to trust him. He didn’t want to find out what he would do if Fionn didn’t.

Rylen’s teeth clacked as he shut his mouth, his expression becoming inscrutable once more as Cullen cut him off. But Cullen couldn’t focus on him. He stared Fionn down, trying to express a strength of will and not the desperate fear and unceasing pain that had taken root in him instead.

It was cruel to force this choice of obedience on Fionn. But if he couldn’t convince a man under his command to follow him instead of a man he’d barely spoken to since they’d arrived then Cullen knew he’d have little chance in wresting control of the situation from everyone else, who knew and trusted Rylen better than Cullen.

And even if Cullen didn’t deserve to be in command, he couldn’t let Dalish and Krem, and the rest of the Chargers, suffer to see Tamsen’s plan succeed.

“You’ve got a direct order, soldier.” Krem murmured at Fionn’s side. “Or do you doubt the Commander?””

Fionn managed to meet Cullen’s eye as he bowed sharply, shallowly, and edged towards the door. He seemed to take an age to leave, if the roar of Cullen’s heartbeats in his ear were anything to go by. He kept bracing to hear Rylen’s voice call Fionn back but it never came. As the door closed, Cullen pressed the heel of his hand to his chest and just breathed against the pain even as relief flooded him.

Maker, give him strength.

Rylen’s hand came to rest hesitantly on Cullen’s shoulder and it nearly brought him to weeping. It was hard to accept the compassion that he longed for when he knew it would cut if he leaned into it. Cullen was pathetically grateful that neither Rylen nor Krem spoke while he rode out the pain.

“The Venatori?” Cullen demanded when his breath had settled.

“We took the Venatori stronghold and captured the man in charge of operations here, called Servis,” Rylen began cautiously. “He’s in confinement and is withholding information, trying to broker a deal for his release.”

“He said there were traitors in the Inquisition he’d been working with. He wants us to promise he’d be released if he gives names.” Krem clarified, his expression and voice flat.

Cullen ached to see Krem like this: standing in the ‘at the ready’ position he adopted when he was least comfortable, his shoulders squared and his gaze sharp. He ached to know that he’d barely said a word to Krem since he entered the room and felt guilty to know that he wouldn’t be able to for some time yet. Not the words he wanted to speak.

“Traitors.” Cullen turned the word over. He knew what Rylen must have made of  _ that _ revelation, especially when he returned and heard that Cullen may be dead and Dalish was—

Wait.

“Rylen,” Cullen heard himself say. The words felt distant even as they were on his tongue. “The Venatori said that there were traitors within the Inquisition?”

“Yes,” Rylen confirmed, glancing Krem’s way before meeting Cullen’s eye once more.

“And after hearing this, you still doubted that Tamsen made an attempt on my life?”

Cullen stared at Rylen’s face and despite the familiarity of every feature, it was the second time tonight that it felt like the first time he’d seen him. His features fit together in new ways, his expressions telling stories that Cullen had never read in him before. He could see the surprise and concern as well as the unrelenting reserve that underpinned everything he did.

It didn’t read like measured confidence to Cullen anymore. It read like blindness.

“The Inquisition is a large organization,” Rylen began, “If his claims were true, he could be speaking of any member throughout Thedas. And—”

“No, you assumed it was Krem before.” Cullen said, the rush of blood loud in his ears. “You knew where you wanted to turn your eye even when you had no proof.”

Rylen’s face was inscrutable and Cullen couldn’t look away from it, even as he felt the heat of Krem’s gaze on him.

Tamsen had claimed not to be Venatori and maybe she truly wasn’t. Maybe Servis was lying to save his skin. Or maybe there truly were traitors worming through the Inquisition elsewhere, waiting to be named. 

But it was the possibility that any of these could be true that made Rylen’s assumption unforgivable to Cullen.

“I gave my reasons and you agreed.” Rylen reminded him.

“Yes,” Cullen said faintly. Because he had and he couldn’t escape that damning truth. “I did.”

Not the worst thing Cullen had done. Not by far. But he still regretted it.

“And I was wrong to do so.” Cullen admitted, pressing on. “While we can’t confirm who Servis is claiming to work with, Leliana will be able to when he’s relocated to Skyhold. But I have proof of Tamsen’s treason, whether or not she’s involved with the Venatori.  _ That _ we can act on. We can investigate her activities to determine who she’s been working with and what else she’s put in motion. Or do you have a double standard for testing loyalty when it’s your man in question?”

Cullen stared Rylen down.

“No,” Rylen said eventually, “I don’t.”

Rylen was far from pleased or convinced, Cullen knew. He could see Rylen’s eyes flicking back and forth slightly as he chewed over the thoughts in his head, his expression otherwise blank. For all that Cullen felt he was seeing Rylen anew, he felt confident he knew what was passing through Rylen’s mind now. He was weighing the disruption to the Inquisition that an investigation of Lieutenant Tamsen would cause against the likelihood that it would assague Cullen’s lyrium-fed delusion if he did so. He still believed that Cullen had taken the dose on purpose.

But Cullen was more relieved by what he didn’t see: rebellion. It matched the all-too-slow realization that Cullen had come to throughout the course of the conversation. Though Rylen may have seized command to deal with the situation when he returned to the Keep, he’d done so when Cullen was presumed dead. After seeing proof of life, Rylen had let others continue under his commands but he hadn’t given new ones.

Rylen was a Templar, through and through.

He would never go against a superior’s orders directly. And what Templar hadn’t taken orders from someone in the delusion grip of lyrium, if pressed to?

Cullen knew he would feel something more than fury when he looked back on this realization. But his anger was the only thing keeping the pain and soul-deep fear down. He swallowed his own thoughts, bitter and heavy, and pressed on.

“You’ll give me the full report of what happened with the assault tomorrow, after I’ve been seen by a healer. Until then, assist Fionn with his orders.” Cullen dismissed him.

Rylen stood stiffly, his brow furrowed. He could read Cullen’s tone well enough and it clearly didn’t sit well with him. 

“You shouldn’t be alone.” Rylen advised him.

“I won’t be.” Cullen agreed, “Krem is staying here and so will the Chargers until I deem otherwise. It seems prudent after the fifth brush with death since my arrival and the mistreatment of his men.”

Rylen closed his eyes briefly and breathed in the steady one-two-hold-slow-release pattern that every Templar learned to master themselves. He’d clearly hoped to talk Cullen into ‘sanity’ on the situation. He looked like a man who was accepting failure.

“As you wish.” He said in tones that would have had Cullen cringing from the displeasure in them only the day before. He bit down the urge to soften the blow even now, tasting bile in the back of his throat. 

He endured it, watching Rylen make his way across the room stiffly and leave without looking back.

“Merciful Andraste.” Cullen breathed. But it wasn’t over, was it?

He turned to Krem, taking in his stiffness and distance along with the buried pain in his expression. 

“Krem,” He begged. “I’m sorry.”

He was. He was sorry for how he had treated Krem and for what he allowed Rylen to do. He was sorry for the pain Krem must have felt when he had been told Cullen had died while he was gone. He was sorry for how he’d fought Dalish and for how she was treated after saving his life. He was sorry for his entire life from Kinloch to now—every mage he’d overseen, murdered, tracked-down, chastised, and terrorized by his presence alone. He was sorry for what he meant to people and the unspeakable harm he’d caused.

And somehow, selfishly, unforgivably, he was sorry for himself too. He was sorry that he’d wanted to die and he was sorry that a large part of him still wished he had even though he knew what it would have done to Krem and Dalish. He was sorry that it had taken him so long to let go of the need for approval—for justification—that he’d let undermine him and everyone around him for over a decade.

He broke down into tears, every word trapped behind his teeth, and any chance of coherency was lost.

* * *

With the Chargers’ arrival soon thereafter, Cullen didn’t immediately get to finish the conversation he’d started with Krem.

With Skinner and Rocky posted outside the door, Dalish—sarcastically—and Cullen—haltingly—gave Stitches a quick breakdown of what had happened after they had entered the Knight-Captain’s office. Grim, who had apparently woken from his drugged state in a holding room before Fionn had freed him, occasionally chimed in with a deep "hmm" during the parts he was present for. Mercifully, Dalish spared Cullen’s dignity as best she could. She left out the tears. The waking nightmare that Cullen had been.

By the end of it, Stitches (and Krem) looked as though they were going to break heads—though whether it was Tamsen’s or Dalish and Cullen’s, Cullen couldn’t tell. Then he belted out commands for Cullen to strip down to his smallclothes so he could examine his thigh and listen to his chest. Truthfully, after that, Cullen tried to take in as little of his examination and prognosis as he could. He still heard everything but the hits didn’t land. Every so often he felt Krem’s fingers curl against his scalp, an echo of the way Krem gripped his mace when faced with a new enemy in combat. But Cullen managed to focus more when Krem ordered everyone out. 

“Wait, they shouldn’t—” Cullen murmured, even as the Chargers obediently filed out to wherever Krem had bid them go.

“They’ll be fine.” Krem swore. “I need a minute. Kaffas,  _ kaffas _ .” 

“I’m sorry.” Cullen said helplessly.

“You should be. Fuck. Your leg is _ fucked _ , Cullen. It’s never going to fully heal. Not with potions, not with magic. And your heart—” 

He took a furious, ragged breath.

Cullen couldn’t blame him. If it had been Krem injured, Cullen would have wanted to die from the blows Stitches had revealed about his possibility of recovery. Cullen’s attempts to fight back against Dalish had retorn the muscle in his thigh and his heart had nearly given out from the lyrium, Dalish’ magic, and Cullen’s attempts to purge it fighting through his already strained body. No sane healer would try to reintroduce magic into his body now even if they could be sure that the lyrium was fully gone and Cullen wouldn’t instinctively try to purge it again. And the normal means of healing were not sufficient to repair the damage.

Cullen was never going to fight again.

Maker, he may never run again. Only time would tell.

The more Cullen thought about it the more panic rose in him like acid and the more his heart ached in his chest, taxed to its limit.

Cullen realized he was trembling when Krem cursed and reached to fold the blanket over him for warmth.

“I’m scared.” Cullen confessed, fumbling with the blanket to get his hand free and reach for Krem’s free hand in turn. Krem took it readily, lacing their fingers together and squeezing with a strength that comforted Cullen.

Yet, Cullen was still afraid.

He was afraid for the future and he was afraid of what he’d realized as he’d lain in bed, waiting to die. It felt at once so distant and like it was still happening. Like if he closed his eyes he’d feel Tamsen’s hands on him instead of Krem’s.

Would today join his nightmares like Kinloch and Kirkwall had? Would he lie in terror, unable to move or wake, feeling his heart play a marching beat towards his death every night as his greatest crimes and failures assailed him?

Cullen’s breath hitched. A sob stole out of him. Then another. Krem’s fingers were like a vice around his own, silently begging him to stay strong. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t. He couldn’t stay the tears even for Krem’s sake. 

It was exactly what he’d been ordered not to let happen.

Cullen had to take it easy for a while, Stitches had said, he had to be careful or his heart could give even now. There were wounds you got from battle that didn’t fell you with a sword in your hand but that dropped you when you sheathed it and the fever of battle stopped supporting your body. He had to remain calm and let his body rest.

“I’m here.” Krem reassured him. “Cullen. Breathe.”

“I deserve this.” Cullen babbled. “Tamsen, when she spoke to me, she said—”

“You let your fucking assassin convince you that you deserve to be killed?”

Cullen closed his eyes. Krem’s fingers were tight against his scalp once more.

“I do, though.” He confessed. “She knew about everything I’d done since becoming a Templar. I did everything Meredith asked. I did  _ more _ than she asked. And—and I did it because I thought it was right. Because I didn’t care if the mages were afraid and in pain because I only ever thought about myself. And now they’re all scared of me. And they should be. If I’m in charge…”

He swallowed thickly.

“ _ Shut up _ .” 

With trepidation, Cullen opened his eyes and stared up into Krem’s face. To his horror, Krem had bitten through his lip and it was bleeding. There was something wild in Krem’s eyes, something that shamed Cullen to the core.

“I thought you were  _ dead _ , Cullen. Do you know what that did to me? And now you’re telling me you’d prefer to be?”

“Krem—”

“No. Shut the fuck up. Listen to me. I’ve watched you throw yourself into danger over and over since we’ve arrived, to prove something to yourself and to that fucking asshole Rylen. You ignored me every chance you got, even after you promised not to. Now you want to value the words of your would-be murderer? Do I rank lower even than her in your esteem? Do you trust her over me? Do I mean that little to you?”

“No,” Cullen breathed, chastised. “Krem, I’m—”

“So let me tell you what you’re going to do, then, since you want to be told so badly. You’re going to shut the fuck up about wishing you were dead. I don’t know of a single Templar who hasn’t done what you’ve told me you’ve done. And most have done worse. The South does some fucked up shit. And if you’re ready to throw yourself on your sword to atone for what you’ve done—do you think the rest of the Templars should too? Or do you think you’re that special? And do you think that’s going to fix a blighted thing?”

Cullen stared at Krem in shock.

“Answer me.”

“I—”

“Right now, if you could kill every Templar with a word, you included, would you do it? It wouldn’t be a struggle, they would just fall.”

“Maker, Krem!” Cullen cried, repulsed at the images that sprang to his mind. Of Rylen falling, of King Alistair, of Lysette, and more. Of those that had gathered to the Inquisition’s banner despite the Lord Seeker commanding them to remain unattached. Of those that Cullen had served with that hadn’t raised their hand to cruelty, though many had turned a blind eye to it as well. He was stung that Krem even suggested it, vulnerability twisting in him like a knife.

“Then you’re a hypocrite. What do you deserve to die for then that they don’t?”

“I’m in command.” Cullen managed, heartsore and trembling. “I’m responsible.”

“Of course you are,” Krem scoffed, as though the acknowledgement didn’t cut Cullen to the quick. “You live to take responsibility. You make changes.”

“I can’t undo what I did.” Cullen pressed. He knew he couldn’t. He knew, he knew.

“And if anyone you’ve wronged has any sense they won’t forgive you for it either.” Krem’s words cut once more. “But you’ll keep changing anyway. Because that’s how you live! Is that what they teach you in the Chantry? That if you commit any sins then you might as well die?”

No, Cullen wanted to deny. The Canticle of Exaltations promised it was not so. 

_ All sins are forgiven! All crimes pardoned! _

_ Let no soul harbor guilt! _

_ Let no soul hunger for justice! _

_ By the Maker's will I decree _

_ Harmony in all things. _

_ Let Balance be restored _

_ And the world given eternal life. _

Andraste had promised. 

And yet, Cullen could not remember it being taught so when a Templar had failed their Knight-Commander or Sister’s commands. Only when the crimes they committed were against mages or the poor were their sins overlooked. Acting against the Chantry’s designs was so unthinkable that Cullen felt sick at the very suggestion. It was only today that Cullen fully felt the same sickness for what he had done under their command as well, the same inexorable sense that he had sinned unforgivably and that the guilt he felt was as deep and fathomless as the sea.

Krem could clearly read Cullen’s answer on his face, for he didn’t bother waiting for Cullen to speak. 

“Well you’re not going to. It’s not that easy. So what are you going to do now that you have to live?”

“I don’t know. Maker, I don’t know. Krem… did you ever read about the last Inquisition?” He asked, begged. His thoughts scattered like raindrops when he reached for them. “When they had served their purpose they split and became the Seekers and the Templars. If they were better men and that’s what their legacy created, then what stain will I leave if I’m Commander?”

“If you really think you’re going to fuck up, then quit.”

Cullen swallowed. He could barely stand the harshness of Krem’s words.

“But you’re not going to, will you?” Krem said shrewdly. “You won’t quit. Not even with your lame leg and your damaged heart. Not when you kept going and giving orders after Kirkwall. So, what are you going to do instead, Cullen? Hate yourself until you don’t trust your own judgement anymore? Stay in power and let another Rylen puppet you because you’re too afraid to make your own decisions? What fucking use are you to anyone, you great fucking bastard? You're not living, you’re just waiting to die.”

Krem’s voice broke and he wrenched his hands away from Cullen, curling them over his face protectively. But Cullen could see the sudden spill of tears down his cheeks. It was a shock to see Krem’s pain—a sharp reminder that he was not the only one hurt. Krem was never so vicious as when he was afraid.

“Fuck,” Krem breathed raggedly, “Fuck, fuck.” 

Cullen rose unsteadily, desperately. He crawled into Krem’s lap and wrapped his arms around him, tucking Krem’s wet face to his chest. His body protested every movement, but the physical ache couldn’t match the weight Krem’s pain had put in his chest. He threaded his fingers through Krem’s hair and pressed a kiss to the side of his face.

“Maker, Krem.” Cullen breathed. “I’m sorry.”

And he was. He was. He always was.

“Bastard.” Krem gasped. His body was tense, curled in on itself like every place their bodies touched pained him. “I thought I was going to see your corpse. I thought I’d left you to die because I  _ trusted you _ —”

Trust had never come easy to Krem and Cullen had been careless with him. Unlike Cullen, Krem had tucked his vulnerabilities deep inside, daring anyone to even hint that they existed. He’d never spoken of everything Cullen knew must have cut him in life. Instead, he took the hurts that were undeniable and used them as a shield to conceal the rest. He couldn’t hide that he’d been thrown out of the army because of what lay beneath his clothes? He told the story in such a way that people left thinking more about Bull than Krem. Even his painful honesty was armor over his wounds.

Cullen thought of every betrayal he’d inflicted on Krem since they’d arrived and wished he could take it back, pull the pain he’d caused back into himself, but he knew he couldn’t and that hurt the worst. 

“I’m sorry.” He repeated himself, uselessly. “I’m sorry. I was a fool.”

“You  _ are _ a fool.” Krem accused. 

Yes, he was. 

It was agonizing to see Krem suffer like this, to feel his chest heaving against Cullen’s as he tried to reign himself in but couldn’t. For the longest time, Cullen had leant on Krem’s seemingly unshakeable strength for support. But it had been as fragile as Cullen’s own composure.

None of the leaders Cullen had admired had lived up to the omniscience and unfaltering rightness Cullen had expected of them. Cullen certainly hadn’t lived up to his own expectations with the life he’d lead and the injustices he’d perpetuated. And Krem had not done Cullen wrong, but he was still a man and Cullen had forgotten that. He’d grown too used to leaning on Krem and expecting Krem to stay unbroken. 

“I’m sorry I did this to you,” He promised. “I’m sorry. You’re right—I’ve been a fool and a coward and much worse. And I hurt you. I… wasn't there for you. But I’ll do better. I’m not going to ‘throw myself on a sword’ or let anyone else. I swear it.”

He would. He’d do better by Krem. By the mages. By… himself. He had to. Or else, Krem was right. Why was he alive if not to change? Why had the Maker seen him through? Even if he didn’t understand how, he had to believe that there was something better. Something to live for. It was a familiar ache that he’d forgotten in the throes of panic, but it had been that hope that had kept Cullen succumbing to demons in Kinloch. And, dangerously, giddily, it was the same faint stirring of hope that he felt now, even drenched in guilt and shame as he was. Was it possible to at once wish you were dead and also believe in the possibility of something better? Both convictions bled together and left Cullen dizzy. 

Krem snorted, wet and disbelieving.

“Oh you do?”

And Krem had every reason to be wary of trusting him again after being cut. Cullen remembered the least of Krem's requests and Cullen’s promises: how Krem had asked him to desensitize himself to magic for Cullen’s own sake and how he’d run from the mere suggestion. He thought of the way Dalish’s hands on him had felt, her magic coursing through him, and the way his body fought to purge it even as his mind cried out in a fever pitch to let her work unopposed. How even with his life on the line he’d been unable to change and move forward. And Krem knew it. He’d heard it all from Cullen’s mouth not minutes before.

If Krem would give him this chance—no. Even if Krem didn’t give him another chance, then Cullen would try do better by him. Maybe all promises were made to be broken, but if Krem was right then the trying was most important. And Maker, Cullen was willing to try.

Cullen held Krem against himself and closed his eyes. He thought about what Tamsen may or may not confess to and of what Rylen might find when they investigated her quarters. He wondered whether the mages she’d worked with in the Keep had been her own or the Venatori’s—and whether they’d confess as well. He thought about Servis’ claim that there were traitors—possibly ones unknown to the advisors—in the Inquisition. He thought about how unstable he'd been since arriving and how likely it was that he'd sown doubt about the Inquisition and its leadership even without Venatori interference. He thought about how he would have to face his terror again to rethink what would happen to the mages after the war. There were so many painful and uncertain things ahead, but he thought most of all about Krem’s short, wet, and staggered breaths against his skin and the love they filled Cullen with. 

“Yes, I do.”

His agreement didn’t taste like a lie in his mouth, but Cullen had broken many oaths that he’d sworn with complete devotion. 

They’d just have to see. They were just men, all of them. 

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few more things to tie up :)


	10. One Month Later: The Epilogue

* * *

CULLEN

* * *

Cullen dithered over the page. He’d managed to avoid writing back to his sister Mia for well over a month as the preparations for Adamant had mounted rapidly. Even now, on the eve of the assault, he found that words deserted him. 

_Mia_ , he had scrawled on the page.

Then under it: _I should have written to you sooner._

And that was as far as he had gotten. 

Even though Mia had faithfully written to him for the last sixteen years, he had always struggled with returning her correspondence. 

_I’m glad that the farm is running smoothly and that_ —Cullen squinted at Mia’s last letter for inspiration— _your yarnwork is improving_. 

He tapped his pen against the page after his spurt of empty words.

Mia didn’t care what he thought about the farm. But it was the only thing she had to write about, save for the obvious questions that she had long stopped asking:

_When did you become “Cullen”?_

_What happened at Kinloch?_

_At Kirkwall?_

_Haven?_

_Are you alright?_

_What is happening with this war?_

_Will we be alright on the farm?_

_Will you come home?_

Instead, Cullen painstakingly replied to every tidbit she had included in her letter: musing about the unruly goats and whether it rained more now than it had in their childhood. 

He sighed, dragging a hand down the back of his neck when he ran out of points to address. This, he always felt, was the worst part of writing a letter to Mia: when he had to talk about himself.

_The Inquisition is doing good work across Ferelden and Orlais._

Maker, now he sounded like he was trying to write one one of Josephine’s recruitment letters. He debated crossing it out, but decided against it. He didn’t want to start his letter over again.

_The Inquisition is doing good work across Ferelden and Orlais. I am doing well._

Maker! Why was this so hard?

He fidgeted, drawing thin parallel lines across the corner of the page as he gathered his thoughts to try again. 

He knew Mia wanted something genuine from him; something he had run from giving her for sixteen years. With each passing month since he joined the Templars the distance had become easier. She’d gone from being the big sister who loomed large in every aspect of his life to a few, scattered, and fond memories of a girl with blond hair and a spray of freckles who washed his skinned knees and threatened to tell Da if he was late to milk the cows in the morning. For the love of Andraste, he knew she couldn’t still be that waifish girl. She was in her mid thirties now and had married sometime during his time in Kirkwall. He hadn’t gone to the wedding.

At the time he’d written a polite congratulations and they’d barely spoken of it since.

_The Inquisition is doing good work across Ferelden and Orlais. I am doing well. By the time you get this letter, we will have attempted to take Adamant and derail whatever foul plot that Corypheus has intended for the Gray Wardens._

They were practically strangers to each other now. 

The ache in Cullen’s thigh drew his attention and he massaged it absently. Time had done the wound well. It had sealed without infection and his leg bore his weight reasonably well for short distances. Tomorrow he’d be able to stand beside the Inquisitor and address the men without faltering.

His eyes slid from the page before him to the crutches propped against the corner of his desk. 

So far, he had been able to limit his use to the tent, out of sight of the Inquisition’s army. But among the war council it was no secret that Cullen had a paltry tether of strength before he was brought short. Leliana had produced a healer who possessed great knowledge and an even greater sense of confidentiality to assess him in secret and the healer had pronounced that if he held to regular exercise without over exerting himself, he could recover more of his leg and heart’s former ability. So far, Cullen had followed her directions and was beginning to notice some gains, however small. He turned his attention back to the page, where he’d drawn a rather lopsided spiral in the corner.

He still didn’t know what to say.

This could be the last letter he wrote to Mia and he didn’t know what to say. He wanted it to be—perfect. But when he tried to imagine writing to her about how much he loved her, that he was thinking of her, and that if anything happened to him he wanted her to have what little he had… it seemed tactless and hollow.

What would Mia even miss if he were gone? Letters about goats? A few sentences about his professional life?

Cullen scratched his chin, aggrieved. Then, with a deep breath, he set his pen to the paper once more.

_Mia, I’ve met someone. That is to say, I’ve been with him a while. He’s a former soldier from Tevinter. His name is Krem._

_I love him._

Cullen swallowed, scratching the nib of his pen against the page until the entire corner had been overtaken by zigzags and other lines.

_You should have seen him at the war council when we were planning the assault. He’s— clever. Resolute._

_Baron Edouard Desjardins called him an upstart at the table when he proposed a contingency plan for the battle and in return Krem called him an unimaginative, soggy Orlesian biscuit, unfit even for dogs. I think Josephine nearly had a heart attack—the Baron was an old friend of her father’s—but I told her that Krem was right. Desjardins has done a commendable job running Suledin Keep, but he’s had the least experience in the desert or with war machines than anyone else at the table, nevermind Krem. When Krem was on the warfront with the Qun, he said there were—well. The topic is unfit for a letter._

Maker, his lips were dry. Cullen drew his tongue over them and then worried the skin between his teeth.

_I don’t know if you’d like him._

Cullen barely knew anything of what Mia felt these days, not truly.

_But one of his men saved my life last month when one of our Lieutenants tried to have me killed. Not a Venatori spy, but a traitor nonetheless. I don’t think the story has spread far... Leliana took over the investigation rather quickly and sealed all the details, so I shouldn’t write them here. But it was a nasty thing. Rylen took it particularly hard. He’d been fond of her._

And Rylen had barely been able to stand looking Cullen in the eye for a week after realizing he had been wrong. Neither of them had the words to address it. Maybe one day they would, but Cullen still felt a deep, undoused rage when he thought back to lying in what should have been his deathbed, hearing Rylen’s casual condemnation of Cullen’s memory.

It was too soon to tell.

_If we take Adamant, the Venatori should be hard pressed to mount an effective force against us. I believe it’s only a matter of months before they are thoroughly routed throughout the South. By this time next year, with the Maker’s grace and Andraste’s blessing, we will turn our eye to restoration._

Cullen moved to ink the corner once more only to find that it had already become a solid black block. Maker’s breath.

He breathed deeply. A minute of silence became two. Two became five. He wasn’t sure how long he sat at the table, worrying the pen between his fingers. He was in his tent, writing a letter. Surely it shouldn’t make his heart pound like this?

_Mia, when that happens I’d like to bring Krem to Honnleath._

_I wanted to take him to see the statue of Wilhelm in town. Krem grew up in one of those big Tevinter cities, so he says he’s seen plenty of statues of mages, but he also didn’t know who Marc Theirin is. Imagine, not knowing the former King of Ferelden and the mage who saved his life!_

_And I thought we might stay with you. At home._

_That is… if there’s still that spare room in the house._

_It’s been a long time since we last saw each other._

_Let me know_ _~~if that’s something you want~~ _ _if that works for you._

_All my love,_

_Cullen_

Cullen hastily folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope before he thought better of it. If he gave it to a courier tonight, Mia would get the letter a few weeks from now, long after the battle was decided. Depending on how hard Adamant proved to crack, it may never matter at all. 

And it would also depend on how his trial would go.

Cullen swallowed.

After Tamsen’s judgement had come down, Cullen had spoken to the Inquisitor and the other advisors about his own actions under Templars. The very things that Tamsen had condemned him for. While the advisors seemed leery of the implications, the Inquisitor had agreed that _—_ if it put Cullen’s mind at ease _—_ they would put him to trial as well once the fight against Corypheus was over. 

It was stupid of him to even feel anxious. He knew _—_ they all knew _—_ that he would never be formally condemned. To condemn him would be to condemn every Templar, many of whom were serving the Inquisition. And, worse, it would condemn the previous Inquisition for creating the Templars in the first place. It would be a political nightmare.

But, perhaps, even formally acknowledging that what had happened to mages could be abuse _—_ perhaps it would be something, nonetheless.

He rose to his feet, legs wobbling for a moment before they steadied under him.

Better to finish the task of mailing the letter instead of having it sit unfinished, weighing on his thoughts. And, besides, walking to the courier would bring him close to the tents the Chargers had pitched. He could fetch Dalish another well deserved bottle of wine _—_ on his coin, of course _—_ before seeking out Krem.

Cullen didn’t intend to let Krem spend the last night before battle alone. Not even if superstition said it was bad luck. 

They would make their own luck, together.

* * *

KREM

* * *

Put a sword in his hand and Cullen was steady as a rock, but give him any kind of personal dilemma and, well—watch him fold.

Krem wasn’t like Cullen.

He’d carried fury in his chest, cradled close and tended like a child, ever since they left the Keep to join the rest of the Inquisition at Adamant. It kept him moving through the waves of helplessness and frustration that rose like bile in his throat. It held him together whenever he had to think about returning to the Keep with the troops and hearing Tamsen—that _liar_ —tell them that Cullen must be _dead by his own hand_ of an overdose and that Dalish had stopped him from getting help in time. 

Krem thought that Cullen could still feel some distance between them despite Cullen’s best efforts to make amends for how he’d handled Rylen’s accusations towards Krem. During Tamsen’s closed trial, he’d staunchly defended Krem at every turn. He’d also campaigned to have Krem spend more time at the war table or in the company of the Inquisitor’s advisors whenever possible, trying to make sure that Krem had the social alliances that he’d lacked at the Keep to keep him above suspicion.

Krem understood that Cullen was trying to make things better going forward. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it or— _kaffas_ ! He knew that Cullen was trying, alright? If he didn’t think Cullen was, he’d walk, no matter how much he loved him. Admittedly, it wasn’t even all about how Cullen had behaved at the Keep. It… wasn’t even _mostly_ about how Cullen had acted. It was worse than that. It was about how Krem _felt._ And Krem knew that with time and conversation the rift would mend, but Krem wasn’t like Cullen. He didn’t need his hand held or a cry to fully get things off his chest. He needed a _fight_.

And Krem didn’t want to fight with Cullen. But he knew that he _would_ unless he’d already found a way to douse the fury in him before they talked about the things that still kept Krem up at night. With Cullen’s heart the way it was—Krem refused to put that stress on him.

Instead, he circled the camp, walking off the tension. Bull had seen his expression and tried to take him aside earlier, but Krem had waved him off. He wasn’t ready to talk without yelling yet. He needed to clear his head.

Unfortunately, life was a bitch and had other plans for him. Andraste’s flaming tits, that was Rylen winding through the tents towards him.

With an audible snap of his heels against stone, Krem came to a halt. 

The bastard was walking in his direction, head down to read, with that _infuriating_ impassive expression smacked onto his face. The same one he’d worn while condemning Krem and the same one he’d worn during Tamsen’s trial as every betrayal spilled out of her lips. Like he’d made a casual mistake and not one that had put a blade to Krem’s throat—not one that had left Krem thinking that Cullen was _dead_ and that Krem and his men would be held to blame for it on Rylen’s word. 

“Knight-Captain.”

Rylen looked up, trying to find the man who’d called out to him, and froze when he locked eyes with Krem and realized that it was him. Then he squared his shoulders and looked down at Krem cooly.

“Lieutenant.”

Well, wasn’t this fucking nice?

Just two men who hated each other’s guts staring each other down. Krem drew in a slow, deep breath. He was capable of being the better man.

Rylen observed him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out why Krem stopped him, before asking, “Do you have a message for me?”

“Sure,” Krem’s mouth said. “Get fucked.” 

Yeah. Screw being the better man.

And if there _was_ any contest, Krem knew he’d beat the man that had left Cullen alone with his _would-be murderer_ for _protection_.

Rylen’s lips pursed and he folded his hands in front of him, doing his best impression of a brick wall. Krem could see boredom and disdain written into every inch of his expression and it made him want to knock in his face.

“I see.” Rylen said. “Leaving a charming impression as always, Lieutenant. As you were.”

“Alright.” Krem agreed, in a deceptively airy tone. “I’ll hop back to cleaning up your messes. Guess a ‘Vint is better than a coward like you when it comes to getting the job done, after all.”

Krem shrugged in an insolent way that he knew infuriated even Bull, who had skin as thick as a dragon’s, and turned to leave. Suck on that, fucker. If he’d been anyone else, Krem could have hauled Rylen off and worked out their differences with a fist. But it was the last thing he could afford to do here: Leliana had made it clear during Tamsen’s trial that she wanted the full scope of the incident kept quiet and buried. Turns out it’s a bad look for the top tier of the Inquisition to have its Commander nearly assassinated because their Knight-Captain trusted the wrong woman. It would make anyone wonder: who else have they trusted that they shouldn’t have? Are all their allies trustworthy? The Inquisition couldn’t afford any further accusations and potential splintering alliances before Adamant, so Rylen got to keep his job despite being a complete incompetent and Krem doesn’t even get to blacken his eye for it. Fucking figures. 

Sometimes, the South reminded Krem far too much of Tevinter. You had a title? Congratulations, nothing you do will ever have consequences again. Doesn’t matter if you killed people or ruined lives: you’re too valuable! 

Sure, Leliana phrased it differently—she still saw value in Rylen keeping his post, he had a history of prior accomplishments and a potential to put them to use here, he didn’t act improperly, and so on and so forth—but it boiled down to the same disgusting mess.

Fasta vass.

“A coward?” Rylen’s voice, low and tight, broke the silence and Krem’s thoughts.

Krem stopped, half turned away from him. He could feel his heart race, the good kind of thrumming through that he felt before a knock-down tavern brawl. Oh, did that one dig deep for Rylen? 

He took a quick look around and thanked his luck when he saw no one was in hearing distance. Krem swallowed a vicious smile.

“Well what else do you call a man who hides behind ‘I did my duty to the letter’ when he’s on trial for the biggest internal cockup the Inquisition’s had so far? I guess you could also call him incompetent but—”

“That’s rich,” Rylen retorted, “coming from a liar like you.”

A laugh bubbled out of Krem’s throat. 

“A liar. Well, consider me blown away.” Krem mused, “All that venom because you thought I was serious about claiming that the Chargers didn’t have any apostates? Come on, that just makes you stupid. Besides, if it wasn’t for Dalish, your little Lieutenant would have killed your friend. You should be saying thank you.”

Somewhere in the middle, Krem’s tone grew bitter. 

Dalish had gotten a personal thank you from the Inquisitor for her service. A nice quiet one that no one would ever hear about. 

“You made Cullen a liar. He broke his word to me— _for you_.” Rylen accused.

Krem’s eyebrows nearly rose into his hairline. “Are you jealous he likes me better?”

Rylen’s breath was short and one hand was gripping the other around the wrist, as though he was physically holding himself back from hitting Krem. Krem stepped closer. He knew he could justify this later—he could say that he was making it harder for anyone to hear their classified conversation—while still egging Rylen on to take that first swing. There’s no fault in self defense. 

“No, you’re probably just mad that every single thing you said about me was actually true about your woman instead and now you have to swallow every bitter inch of the truth. How does it feel to be the man who let three attempts on his Commander’s life slip by him?” Krem goaded.

“Everything I did was to protect him. You—”

But Krem wasn’t finished yet.

“Tamsen said she was doing it for you.” 

Krem smiled as his words cut through Rylen’s, leaving him silent. 

Hadn’t that been a little revelation of the trial? Lieutenant Tamsen, would-be savior of all the mages in the Inquisition, thought that the good Knight-Captain Rylen would be a more palatable Commander than Cullen. 

“There she was, taking all her cues from you. While you did your utmost to undermine his position—trying to tell him he was unfit for duty, trying to tell him that he couldn’t trust his own judgement—so did she. Pity that she and her mages were utterly misguided about the kind of man that you are. Tell me, Knight-Captain, if you were the Commander and we finished this war with Corypheus… would you let the mages stay free?”

Rylen glared at Krem, every inch of his body stiff, proud, and hateful.

“No.” He resolved. “ _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him_.”

“Well then. There you have it. I’m a liar and you’re—well,” Krem smirked. “Unlike the faults you deny having, my secrets don't kill people.”

Krem watched Rylen swallow that down. He was close enough to the other man to see the tug of disgust on his lips and the crease between his brows. Krem hoped the hint of doubt he saw hounded him for the rest of his life. Cullen would never run again; why should Rylen flee his complicity? 

Krem took a deep breath, theatrically eyeing Rylen head to toe and looking away, openly finding him wanting. He wasn’t going to find any closure with this bastard. Even riled, Rylen remained passive. His hands were shaking, but he’d never take the swing.

“Well, it’s been lovely catching up—” Krem began, sarcastic.

“Why did you leave the Tevinter army?” Rylen demanded.

With an imperious lift of his chin, Rylen pressed on. As if he could will a damning truth out of Krem through sheer willpower alone. Something that would justify his paranoia and doubts.

“You served magisters willingly for years. Why break ties and come South?”

Well wasn’t that an implicit accusation and a half? Krem had never cared about the might of Tevinter. He joined to keep from starving and he saw more than his share of horrors on the front with the Qunari before his luck ran out and the wrong physician gave him a physical. Faced with the threat of execution or slavery for the shape of his body—what was there to do then but run? 

If it hadn’t been for Bull—

Krem pulled himself back from that dark path with the strength of years of practice. 

“Why did I leave the Tevinter army?” Krem mused. He leaned back in towards Rylen, holding his gaze.

With all of Rylen’s attention and fury focused on him, Krem smirked.

“ I deceived them.”

Rylen drew in a short, furious breath, his whole body expanding with it. Good. Let him shake with it. Let it fucking consume him thinking about whether Krem was taking the piss or was telling the absolute truth.

Krem was done with him.

He turned and walked away. 

As Krem circled back, the camp around him grew busier. The confrontation with Rylen hadn’t been enough of the fight that Krem craved and his body still thrummed with energy, but the edge that had been there before he left was blunted. He felt looser. Less like he was going to punch the next person who talked to him.

“Krem!”

Krem turned, facing Bull as he ambled over. Well, that was lucky. He didn’t mind going a few rounds with Bull, but he didn’t place any odds on his chances of winning either.

“Chief?” Krem asked.

“Your boy’s looking for you. Sent him over to your tent.” Bull paused. “You doing alright there, Krem-puff?”

Krem scoffed.

“Better before you whipped out the dumb names, boss.”

Krem patted him on the arm, trying to let Bull know he appreciated the question. Just. In a manly way where he didn’t have to say anything. Ever. He ducked Bull’s answering gesture—an attempt to ruffle his hair—and skirted around him to be closer to where the Chargers had pitched their tents.

“Don’t have fun too loudly, Krem-de-la-Krem.” Bull teased.

“What do you think I’m going to be up to? It’s not even full dark!” Krem complained.

“Never stopped you before.”

Krem made a rude gesture at him and fucked off, Bull’s laughter on his heels. 

When Krem swept into his tent, Cullen was sitting on his bed, hands awkwardly clasped together, waiting. Cullen jerked to attention at his arrival, before realizing who was in front of him. The moment he recognized Krem, his face went so soft and fond that Krem was embarrassed to be on the other side of that gaze.

“Krem,” Cullen murmured, shifting like he wasn’t sure if he should stand or not. “I heard you were out, but—”

“I don’t mind you being in here.” Krem shrugged, letting the flap fall shut behind him. “I’m glad to see you.”

Cullen gave him a soppy look. Unable to stand it, Krem slipped his fingers under Cullen’s chin and bent over to catch him in a kiss. Cullen’s hand clutched his sleeve and then Cullen was drawing Krem down carefully onto his lap. 

Handsy man, that Cullen. Krem’s body still thrummed, worked up and irrepressible. But anger and frustration had an energy that could easily be turned—with the right incentive. It was a shame that Krem didn’t really go for being held in anyone’s lap like a doll. He’d really much prefer to be on top.

He put his hand on Cullen’s chest and slowly pushed him down back onto the bed. Cullen made an unhappy, longing sound as their kiss broke but went willingly. Then he was laid out nicely, flush with the sheets, his eyes wide and dark with want, staring up at Krem like he was the only thing worth looking at.

Well, now. _That_ was much more to Krem’s liking. 

“I haven’t even been with you for a full minute and you’re trying to take me to bed,” Krem chided, playful. “We’re in the middle of camp in a tent. Shame on you.”

Cullen’s face did something complicated as expressions paraded themselves over it in turn. Shame, arousal, embarrassment, and more. Krem appreciated that about Cullen: he was honest about his feelings to a fault. Krem never wondered how Cullen felt about him; he only had to look at him to know that Cullen treasured him. At times, it was daunting. Krem was slower to trust and even slower to give a second chance. 

But with Cullen—

Well. The tension in his shoulders bled out slowly as Krem ran his fingers down the center line of Cullen’s chest until they reached his laces.

Krem never doubted that Cullen loved him.

It was easier to beat back the fear that had dogged him since Griffon Wing Keep with Cullen safe beneath him. The fear that they’d never have this again. That Cullen would be gone. That Krem let it happen, both by trusting someone else to keep Cullen safe and also by opening himself up to the pain of losing someone by bringing his guard down so low to care for him in the first place.

Krem wanted this so much he ached. All the years they could have together had nearly vanished in a single moment. Cullen was supposed to have been safe at the Keep. How was it that Krem was the one who’d gone into battle, but Cullen’s life had hung as precariously as a thread? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t right. Krem wanted to stop waking up from dreams about walking down the hall in the Keep under Rylen’s guard, certain that when they reached Cullen’s room he was going to find his corpse. He wanted to stop worrying about what would happen to Cullen if he ever needed to fight or be healed again—Leliana had ordered Krem to stop working on Cullen’s instinct to purge magic as the strain of training it out of him would likely kill him for what she considered ‘little potential gain’. Cullen wouldn’t be fighting on any more battlefields, so they would let the remaining lyrium run its course through his body… and that would be that as far as the advisors were concerned. Krem held a thousand worries close to his chest. How could he sleep knowing that Cullen’s care was being calculated to better his capacity to serve others and no further? Cullen could be hurt in so many ways. He could _die_ and Krem—

Krem wanted this relationship to be—not simple, exactly, because love was never simple—but something he could take for granted again. 

He wanted the certainty of this.

“Cullen.” Krem started. Then words fled him.

He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, as Cullen looked up at him with increasing concern.

“Krem, are you—?”

Heart racing, Krem braced himself over Cullen and leaned down to press a kiss against his lips to quiet him.

“I’m fine.” Krem murmured against his mouth, a lie falling into place readily enough. “I was thinking about meeting your sister.”

“She’ll love you.” Cullen reassured him.

“Cullen, you haven’t even told her outright that you’re a man. Who knows what she’s heard since she last saw you or why she thinks you changed your name. And speaking of when you last saw her—wasn’t that when you were thirteen, gangly, and with a mop’s worth of hair on your head? What’s she going to say when we walk up together?”

“She’ll say that she’ll keep you to be a better brother to her than I am.” Cullen sighed, reaching up to press his hand against Krem’s cheek. 

Krem bit back a response and let himself settle into the touch. Cullen’s thumb traced the curve of his chin slowly while Krem relaxed.

“What?” Krem asked, watching as Cullen’s eyes lingered on his mouth.

“We don’t have to go—” Cullen started.

Krem pinched him.

“Don’t be stupid.” He said as Cullen yelped. “We’ll go. I’m just saying—”

“She’ll love you.” Cullen insisted. Then, tenderly: “ _I_ love you.”

 _Oh, well if Cullen loved him, that’d fix everything, now wouldn’t it?_ Krem thought sarcastically, but with no bite. For Cullen, it was that simple. After hearing about everything that had happened in Kinloch and Kirkwall, Krem had often wondered how Cullen kept going. But he had an unshakeable optimism in life that had kept him moving past every dark turn. And here it was again: Cullen loved Krem, so of course everything between them would be alright.

Krem pressed his forehead against Cullen’s.

“Idiot.” He murmured.

But even if Cullen was an idiot, he still made it. He was here, pressed up against Krem, and most importantly _alive_. Who was to say that he wouldn’t be here making even stupider decisions in another year? Five?

Krem wanted it to be that easy.

And—despite the weight of all of Krem’s own experiences telling him that it couldn’t be, that it was too good to believe, that it was impossible, that he’d get burned—maybe Krem could bring himself to believe it could be too.

Cullen smiled, triumphant, and Krem let him catch him in another kiss.

Well, Krem guessed, Bull was right. They’d have to try not to be too loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride! Thank you everyone who read, commented, or left a kudos on this story! (or who does so in the future!) I'm really pleased and inspired by all the kind words and feedback that I've gotten and I'm glad that parts of the story and my writing resonated with people. 
> 
> I also want to just do another shout out to missivesfromghosts, without whom this story would never have existed, and to abcooper, who I ambushed a while ago with an almost finished version of the story and demanded that she read it or I wouldn't be able to continue on. She also does writing jams with me and keeps me on task!
> 
> I have a few other Dragon Age fics in progress and I'm looking forward to finishing them and sharing them :)

**Author's Note:**

> I am not looking for (constructive) criticism. Instead, I am looking to share a work that means a lot to me personally. If there's something you liked, feel free to let me know!


End file.
